


A Flower for Two

by hello_mintblooms



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin (2019), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Consensual Sex, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kissing, Oral Sex, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_mintblooms/pseuds/hello_mintblooms
Summary: Desiring a temporary refuge from his duties as Grand Vizier of Agrabah, Jafar wanders the marketplace in disguise. There, he spies a flower vendor that piques his interest, and he soon finds himself charmed by more than just her wares, resulting in weekly afternoon strolls that quickly become routine.





	1. A Daisy for My Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to take a break from writing the next chapter of "The Shadowed Heart" with--you guessed it--more writing. This idea came to me today while watching a movie, and I just thought it was so sweet that I had to write it down. Looks like it's going to be another chaptered story after all... I hope you all enjoy it, and feedback is always more than welcome!

Each Tuesday afternoon, precisely when the sun is at its highest point in the Agrabah skies, Jafar dons the tattered robes of a thief and slips silently away into the city's center.

Despite the opinions of others--all of which matter very little--Jafar has never forgotten his humble beginnings as a mere street thief in Shirabad's filthy streets. The lessons he learned there remain with him still as he plucks sweets from a baker's cart or slithers silently through alleyways without a care in the world.

But he never forgets to leave payment for what he takes. After all, he is Grand Vizier, and while anyone would be more than grateful for the opportunity to provide him with free goods, there is a particular thrill in being able to pay his own way. His smile curves sharply beneath his hood as he rounds into the marketplace, carefully wrapping the excess fabric of his robes around his nose and mouth. He has absolutely no desire to give anyone explanations today.

As always, the marketplace is a sparkling metropolis among the desert sands, vendors packed into every corner of the sprawling square and converging roads. The crowd here swims like a sea of brightly colored jewels as they stop to examine all manner of wares, from silks shipped from foreign lands, to the sweetest, crispest apples, all the way to roasting meat and all manner of livestock. Jafar begins to feel the heat of the day as sweat slides over his back. He tries to keep to the shadows as his eyes carefully assess the stalls.

He pauses by a goldsmith, pretending to examine the array of shining necklaces and a pair of jade earrings, though he has little interest in these. His fingers twitch at the sight, temptation rushing through him; it would be so stupidly easy to swipe any manner of goods and slip them silently into his robes as he passes. Then again, he has an entire palace brimming with all the wealth his heart could possibly desire, so what is honestly the point? He supposes that old habits will always be difficult to break.

Jafar strolls carefully to the opposite side of the square, to the eastern-most corner. His smirk is obnoxious beneath the fabric covering his mouth. Here lays his prize.

If not for the High Council's utter stupidity, he would have likely never even considered these covert afternoon outings, for those foolish men are grating on his nerves and he is so close to bashing his serpent staff over their kneecaps. As Grand Vizier, it is Jafar's responsibility to ensure that all is running as it should within the kingdom, including matters related to trade and the security of the streets. And of course, as always, those bumbling idiots who serve on the Council with him (but perhaps more accurately, under him) refuse to see reason, disagreeing with his every decision to the point where Jafar's cool mask of indifference slips to reveal a booming voice and biting obscenities. Then there is the matter of that silly princess and her blasted cat, wandering about the palace halls as if they are masters of everything.

A sea of color splashes into Jafar's line of vision, his nose immediately assaulted by the scent of flowers. Even with his face covered, the fragrance is overpowering and, as always, will likely have those fools back at the palace questioning why he reeks of leaves and rosebuds. He will answer to no one, not even the Sultan.

It is difficult to pick you out from behind the stall, because the flowers around you blend into one another in such a way that it's impossible to look elsewhere at first. Jafar spies blood-red tulips, roses as yellow as the deep sunset, and daisies in all shades and varieties. There are even lilies and sunflowers neatly arranged on the counter, perched in a deliberate manner on either side. Jafar sometimes wonders how you manage to tend to all these flowers, and more importantly, how you are able to keep them thriving in this choking heat.

You are crouched low behind the counter, clipping the leaves off a bouquet of wildflowers when you notice a potential customer surveying your wares. You shoot up, greeting whoever it is with a pleasant smile which quickly turns coy.

"Good afternoon," you say, your voice taking on a softness reserved only for your best customers. "It's wonderful to see you again, sir. How may I be of service to you today?"

Jafar spies a mass of thick, black hair poking out from beneath your pale pink shawl, made of the thinnest material imaginable. He had noticed that your hair usually falls loose to your shoulders, some of it braided to give you relief from the heat. You had only started wearing the shawl once he returned faithfully each week, which disappoints him for a reason he'd rather not think about.  

"I'd like to purchase some flowers," he says. His voice is slightly muffled from the fabric covering his face, but it is still smooth as the finest honey in all the land.

"Of course. What will it be today?"

Your hands reach for some of the sunflower stems in a bucket nearest you, and Jafar's eyes follow them. Those hands--those hands had been what had fascinated him at first, so gentle and careful around the flowers you tended to. He was unable to get those hands out of his mind, even as he sat in on Council meetings, shouting loud enough to make the very halls tremble.

And then he had continued to return, week after week, finding relief in the shyness of your smile and the patience with which you answered all his questions. He had no use for the flowers he purchased from you time and time again, but it is your attention which he desires above all.

Jafar considers the blooms laid before him, the rings on his fingers glinting in the sunlight. He tilts his head, looking to the bounty spread behind you. "What is your opinion of those?"

You follow his gaze and pluck a few to set on the counter to allow him a closer look. "The daisies, sir? They're quite sweet, I think. Simple, but perfect if you're looking to bring some warmth to someone's day. They're also great for adding a touch of sincerity to any gift."

When this man first began appearing at your stall, you might have thought him to be a traveler from some foreign kingdom. Even though his robes spoke of a humble existence, it was the rings he wore, fashioned from precious stones, that had brought to mind lavish finery fit for a king.

This stranger comes to you every week--every Tuesday afternoon at the hottest time of day, to be precise. Not once have you glimpsed his face, but his onyx eyes have you drowning, leaving you gasping for air. You dare to imagine what his face looks like beneath that swath of fabric, but it seems you will never find out. Your insides twist at the thought that he may be buying flowers for his beloved, which would explain his frequent appearances as of late.

You have been a flower vendor for nearly your entire life--a mere twenty-four years--and while not the highest-paying profession in the world, it pays for the necessities rather handsomely.  On occasion, requests from the palace do come in for large orders, and it is then that you are awake at all hours at the night, working furiously to fulfill the immense task required of you. But you don't really mind, because the flowers you tend to have always been your first love, and while work is indeed taxing, every day is an opportunity for you to lose yourself in the smells and sights of nature.  

"Do you like them?" Your customer's voice snaps you to attention, rousing you from your thoughts. You blink hard, staring, and then a fluttering sensation dips into your stomach which only serves to distract you even more.

"The daisies," he tries again, slower this time. "Do you like daisies?"

Gods, what he must think of your intelligence. Non-existent, if you had to guess. "Yes," you stammer. "They're lovely, perhaps the loveliest of all." His brows knit together in confusion as he studies the larger, more expensive blooms all around you. "I think that when a daisy is gifted to someone, it comes from the heart, a place of true sincerity," you add hurriedly. This seems to melt away his confusion, and he nods.

He asks for the price, not that it matters to him. You tell him, and ask how many of the stems he would like.

"One," he says simply.

"Only one, are you sure? They're quite cheap."

"Yes, one will be enough."

You nod, cradling one of the flowers delicately in your hands as you deposit it on the counter. The stranger sets down five gold coins, which is much more than a single flower fetches for. You take it gratefully; this man always gives a little more, and you will not question his reasons for doing so.

"Enjoy the rest of your afternoon," you say cheerfully.

"You as well."

You do not expect what happens next.

The stranger gently breaks off the longest part of the daisy stem he has just purchased and goes to tuck it almost lovingly within your shawl, right over your ear. Heat floods your cheeks, your heart pounding as his fingers brush your face in the gentlest of caresses.  

At that same moment, his fingers reach to pull at the fabric cloaking his face, and it falls away delicately, revealing a curved grin and a thick, neatly-kept beard that has routinely caused several of Agrabah's women to weep and giggle at the sight. You gasp, hands flying to your mouth as you take a step back, nearly stumbling over the buckets filled to the brim with flowers.

It is Jafar, Grand Vizier to the Sultan of Agrabah.

You cannot breathe, cannot speak, but simply stand struck dumb at what is happening. Your body is rooted firmly in place, and it is as if your soul has ascended straight to paradise at this most unexpected turn of events. Or perhaps you have descended to hell, depending on who's asking.

Jafar is utterly delighted at your reaction, though he did not think you would be so frightened. He supposes he has only himself to blame for that, for he knows what the people whisper about him when his back is turned, and he cannot say he minds it very much. Laughter dances high in his eyes, and he cannot help his widening grin, which is threatening to split his face in two.

"I will be seeing you again," he murmurs, taking a step closer. You dare not move.

Jafar takes his leave of the marketplace in the same manner in which he entered it: still and silent as death.

Your heart continues to race long after he has gone, but you smile to yourself, hardly daring to believe your good fortune at being able to glimpse the man that so many would kill for the mere opportunity of doing so.  

***

Jafar finds himself in yet another Council meeting in which he would like nothing more than to gouge his own eyes out. For the past hour, he has listened to the palace officials-- _his_ officials--spew all sorts of nonsense about how they believe the kingdom should be run. Today, the subject being discussed is that of infrastructure, and if not for the Sultan sitting right there, Jafar swears he would disintegrate to ash every imbecile in this room.

"--a well in every district of the kingdom would be a waste. The palace treasury is already at a loss as it is, and as such we simply cannot afford to bend to the whim of every poor, destitute citizen in the city."

Jafar has only just resumed listening--just barely--and a headache is already forming behind his eyes. His parrot, Iago, sits mercifully quiet at his shoulder.

"Forgive me for disagreeing," Jafar begins, addressing the lunatic that has just spoken, "but I _do_ , in fact, disagree. The palace coffers are near bursting, and access to clean water in as many areas of the city as possible will only help the people to thrive and attract more foreign visitors, thereby increasing trade opportunities overseas. No one with any brains would dare step foot into a kingdom which lacks even the basic necessities. Wouldn't you agree, my Sultan?"

The Sultan, a gold turban covering his head, sits at the head of the long oak table. Fifteen sets of eyes turn to peer at him expectantly, and he nods his assent, agreeing with his vizier. Jafar does not even have the strength to feign a pleased grin, for every moment that he spends here with these fools is a torture of the most excruciating degree.

He thinks of your hands, closed around the stem of the daisy he had tucked behind your ear, and imagines himself back at your stall. He replays the moment in which he had allowed his cloak to fall away, revealing to you his face. Now _that_ had been done on purpose, and the anticipation of seeing you again has him squirming in his seat.

"Yes,  I have to agree with Jafar." It is the Sultan, voicing out loud what Jafar has already deduced. "Splendidly put, as always."

"But my Sultan!" The official who had made the foolish quip about the well rises, fists slamming on the table. "We must tend to our _own_ people first, not the commoners. What is more important is that the palace is running well first, because if the palace fails--"

"Enough." Jafar rises from his seat, his golden serpent staff in hand. He knows precisely what this idiot means by "our own people," further convincing the vizier that no one in this room gives a single damn about this kingdom. They will sink it to ruin within the year if he does not intervene.

The officials in the room are wide-eyed, and this is so far the only thing which has pleased Jafar all week. He knows he is threatening, even with his voice floating through the room in a hushed murmur. "I will not sit here idle while this fool insults me, and unless you would all prefer to become slaves to some paltry foreign kingdom, I highly suggest you all mind your words and take my advice. My apologies," he says to the Sultan, and with that Jafar exits the room, his nerves stretched thin and his mind elsewhere.

He sets down Iago in his chambers before slipping off his finery and changing into the robes of a thief, leaping from the open window without a second thought.

***

You have not been able to concentrate on your work for quite some time now, not since the events of the previous week. Of all the things you had expected, you would never have imagined that the frequent visitor to your stall was actually Jafar, the second-most powerful man in all the kingdom.

Your thoughts swim rapidly as you arrange wildflower bouquets on the floor of your brick-and-stone home, a million questions forming on your tongue. The second floor is usually reserved for your work, but today you can't bring yourself to climb the measly ten steps it would take to get there. Your fingers tremble as you cut deadened leaves off the stems of newly-bloomed roses.

How could this have happened? How could you not have known it was him? He had been disguised, but those eyes--those blackened eyes--those should have given him away.

Jafar's reputation is known far and wide throughout Agrabah and has spread in no time to neighbouring kingdoms. The whispers that run throughout the market suggest that even those at the palace cower before him with a look, and you can certainly understand why. That calm, controlled voice of his conceals an edge beneath the charm, but you also know that that charm is very real indeed. It had worked well enough on you.

Lying to yourself won't do you any good. You had been drawn to him from the day he had first appeared at your stall. The smoothness of his voice and the gentleness of his manner had been your ruin, and though he is the vizier, it changes nothing. The sensation of his fingers against your cheek as he had tucked that daisy behind your ear had sent a delicious thrill coursing through your veins. But nothing can ever come of this, and you know it. He is still one of the most stunning men you have ever seen. You are sure that the women in the kingdom share this sentiment.

You continue to work, lost in silent daydreams spun from daisies and the caresses of a man who has the world at his mercy. You do not notice onyx eyes watching you from the doorway, nor do you notice that the door has been kicked quietly shut.

"Do you require assistance?"

You spin, dropping the bouquet of wildflowers from your arms.

Jafar. It is Jafar.

You quickly lower your gaze, not wishing to be rude, though you suppose you have already accomplished that a million times over in the weeks past. "Forgive me, Grand Vizier." It is taking incredible effort to keep the tremor out of your voice. "I did not know it was you at my stall. Had I known, I would not have been so careless with my words. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

Jafar takes no more than three measured steps toward you, coming to stand before you in an instant. Your gaze is fixed firmly on the tattered edges of his robes. _He should not be here_ , you think. _It is why he has been disguised. He knows he should not be here. Has he come here to punish me for my rudeness?_

"Jafar," he says, voice hushed. "You may call me Jafar. And you are..." Your name falls off his tongue, and your head snaps up, squarely meeting his unblinking stare. You choke back a gasp, having nearly forgotten how painfully handsome he is. He does not wear his usual hood, thereby completely exposing his face.

A surprising warmth fills his eyes, his lips tugging upwards into a smile filled with hesitation which you do not understand. You suddenly wonder what it would be like to brush your hand over his cheek, to feel the roughness of his beard against your palm. It cannot be helped; the Grand Vizier is a breathtaking sight on any day of the week.

"How do you know my name?" You barely manage to stumble over the words.

Jafar's subtle smile shifts into a wicked grin. "Have I not been to see you each week for the last two months, or have you forgotten already?"

Your face instantly heats, and you avert your gaze once more. "Yes, my Grand Viz--yes, you have. But I did not think you would ever remember it."

You feel Jafar's hand upon your cheek. This simple act forces a delightful pleasure to swell in your chest, and so you dare to look at him, all too aware of the calloused touch of his fingers. The expression on his face is enough to make you want to throw yourself on the ground before him.

"I remember, just as I hope you will remember this."

Before you can ask any questions of him, Jafar takes your face in both his hands and brushes his lips against yours. It is a whisper of a kiss, as invisible as the early morning breeze. Time stands still as you feel the scrape of his beard against your skin. He draws back, regarding you carefully through half-open eyes.

Your body seems to move of its own accord as you claw at the front of his robes, pulling him roughly to you. His hands immediately go to wrap around your waist, and you feel his tongue smooth over your lips, begging you to open for him. You do so in an instant, crashing your lips against him desperately, and it is only when his hands lower to bruise your hips that you pull back, eyes snapping open at the knowledge of what you have just done. The urge to apologize is stronger than ever, and you wonder whether you will be executed for taking such liberties with a man you have no business sharing the same air with.

Jafar is breathing hard, hands still splayed on you and hopelessly lost in the lingering taste of your kiss. He did not think he would ever get this chance, and now that he has it, he would dare anyone to take it from him.

"I would like to get to know you," he says, fingers stroking your cheek. "If you wish. It is not a demand, and should you deny me, I will not take up any more of your time."

You blink hard, disbelief shrouding you like fog. " _You_ want to get to know _me_."

He smirks. "Is that so difficult to believe?"

 _Yes_ , you want to shout, but instead you say nothing, unable to tear your gaze away from the sloping planes of his face. His skin is lightly tanned from the sun, and you find yourself wondering how many times he has stolen away from the palace when no one was looking. He takes your chin in one hand, waiting for his answer.

"What do you make of this?" You are unable to hide your smile, shyness creeping in.

"Yes," you whisper. "Yes, I would like that very much." And then you decide to take a risk that has him beaming brighter than the stars shining over the kingdom at night. "I would like that, _Jafar_."

"Wonderful." He brushes his lips against yours yet again. This kiss is much more chaste than the last, but it lingers, searing your skin. You can feel his smile against your own.

He pulls back enough to rest his forehead against yours. "Wait for me next Tuesday afternoon. I will return to see you then," he murmurs. "But please tell no one."

You nod, and he crosses the room to the door, tiptoeing backwards like a child who knows they've done something naughty. His eyes never roam away from your face.

"See you soon, my flower girl."

You collapse against the wall, surrounded by nothing but flowers as Jafar slips quietly out the door. You reach to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, but instead your fingers meet the petals of a daisy, tucked securely into your hair. How you had not noticed him planting it there you do not know, and you do not care. Your laughter rings through the room clear as a bell.

And Jafar? He will return, again and again, to the safety of your stall and into your waiting arms, should you allow him to do so.

He cannot hide his smile as he vaults over the palace gates, Iago circling overhead.  


	2. The Sunshine In Your Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jafar's visits to his most favored merchant begin to increase in number, leading a select few in the palace to wonder where he disappears to at all hours of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing gentle-but-still-an-asshole-Jafar has become my absolute favorite thing to do. With this story, I'm trying to write a Jafar that's completely smitten and who's allowing himself to actually feel these new emotions. As always, I'll be updating the tags as I go along, so do check them before reading. As for "The Shadowed Heart." I'll be writing the new chapter today and posting it sometime during the week. Thank you for all your support, and enjoy!

As the days blur into weeks, Jafar continues to slip unnoticed into the marketplace to steal near-bashful glances at his most favored merchant. He finds himself making more frequent trips to your flower stall, sometimes returning each and every afternoon and at multiple hours of the day. His addiction cannot be sated, and his eyes, which wander to no one else, always find your hands—hands which he dares allow himself to imagine on his body in the most unbecoming of places.

He purchases a different flower from you each day, his hood falling over his eyes and the fabric of his cloak wrapped tightly over his face. And each and every time, Jafar only tugs it back when he wishes to feel your breath tickling his lips, stealing a kiss from you for all the world to see. No one ever says anything, because why would they? When he comes here, he is nothing more than a common man going about his business.

Today, he takes a single sunflower from your stall, cradling it carefully in his hands as he had seen you do multiple times, though he knows he will never be able to mimic your movements precisely.

"What on earth will you do with all these flowers?" you ask him.

Jafar slides a few coins over the counter and flashes you a knowing grin. "You shall see." He winks and places a kiss to your cheek. Your skin flushes like the blood-red roses you have been tending to as of late, and this fact does not escape him. Unbridled joy blooms in his chest, and he fears he is much too far gone to turn back now.

Back in his rooms atop the palace's highest tower, Jafar tucks the sunflower into a large crystal vase perched on a low mahogany table. The sunlight filtering into the room bounces off the glass of the vase, splitting it into luminous rainbow prisms over the carpeted floor. Jafar adds the sunflower to all the other stems he has acquired from you, and the effect is rather lovely even if he has never cared for flowers before this.

But now, through your flowers, he has your company even when you are apart. Soon his rooms and the hall outside begin to take on the permanent scent of florals, no doubt making the palace fools question his sanity.

Jafar steps into the hall, serpent staff in hand as he locks the door behind him. The Minister of Infrastructure—the same idiot who had argued with him during the last Council meeting on the subject of accessible water—sniffs haughtily in his direction. His midnight blue robes are incredibly gaudy, his long grey beard cheapening the ensemble even further.

"What a rather... _feminine_ odour," the official drawls, glancing suspiciously to Jafar's locked door. "It seems you have been quite occupied as of late."

Jafar could honestly grab him by the throat and choke the life from him in this very moment, but he resists the urge and instead offers a most saccharine smile lined with daggers. "Minister. How wonderful to be blessed by your presence yet again."

The man—Abbas, Jafar thinks his name is, though he does not particularly care—pins him with a glare. "You should at the very least try to hide the whores which you smuggle into your room each night. What shall the rest of the Council think, and perhaps more importantly, the Sultan? It is most unsavory behavior."

Jafar's smile tightens, and if he so much as breathes, he knows that the feigned calm currently laid across his face will vanish like the lightening. He grinds his teeth, and once, just once he wishes that the Sultan would cease choosing imbeciles to run this godforsaken kingdom. At the very least he would like to be consulted on which men of little intelligence he will be forced to engage in a battle of wits.

Of course, it is not as if Abbas is wrong. Jafar has been known on occasion to sneak women into his chambers for sleepless nights filled with bodies crashing against one another and hands upon places concealed by his robes. Indeed, some _have_ been women of the streets, but several had refused payment, preferring to take payment in the form of bedding the Grand Vizier. He supposes that bragging rights are more valuable than gold, though he always made sure to slip a few coins into their satchels for their trouble without detection.

He will not allow anyone to question his personal business, and certainly not this imbecile who looks as if he has never seen the female form at any point during his pathetic existence. "I would watch your words if I were you, Minister. I would hate for the Sultan to became aware of your _taste_ for younger ladies." Jafar makes sure to place particular emphasis on the last few syllables, enjoying the sight of the man's blood draining from his face. "It would be a shame for someone to carelessly whisper that they caught you in the act of laying your hands on the young princess, true or not."

The effect of his words is instantaneous, and Abbas immediately turns his back on the vizier and trudges at a rather brisk pace down the hall, a sour look crossing his face. Jafar's satisfied grin is absolutely lethal. How _dare_ anyone try him and think they can get away with it. He will crush them all beneath his boot if he must.

He thinks wistfully of your shy smile and the secret glances you steal at him when you think he's not paying attention, and Jafar knows he must see you at once, at the earliest possible opportunity. His blood rushes like a sudden rain at the thought, his breathing ragged at the thought of  your hands. How he has allowed himself to fall this far, he does not know.

He knows he is being incredibly foolish, but he is happy, something which he has not been in a long time.

***

It is well past midnight when you are carefully brushing dirt from volumes of freshly-picked blooms. The time of the Summer Festival is quickly approaching, and there is much to be done in preparation.

This is a joyous time of year in which Agrabah's Sultan will hold a grand celebration in acknowledgement of the start of summer. Each year, the festival boasts a three-day celebration teeming with music, dancers, fireworks, and foreign merchants lining every corner of the streets. The marketplace will be particularly busy during the nightly street parties, giving you ample opportunities to increase your profits.

You think wistfully of last year's festivities, of the endless bouquets you had sold to men courting their women, and a sigh escapes you at the reminder of your loneliness. You can only hope that you might be on the receiving end this year, because you are not as lonely as you once were.

You kneel on the main level of your home, endless varieties of flowers covering every inch of space. The perfume of the petals makes your head spin, but you must finish soaking each and every stem in water, for the palace has placed an immense order that must be ready in time for the Summer Festival. The Sultan usually sees fit to contact his own merchants who will supply flowers from their own specialty gardens within the palace, but even your reputation has not been able to escape the Sultan's ears—a most welcome occurrence despite the extra work.

In addition to this order, you must also begin preparing the stems you will be selling at your own stall during the nightly festivities. There is much work to be done, and you cannot rest now.

A knock sounds at your door, forcing all thoughts of business aside. Who could it possibly be at this hour?

You rise, staring at the door. Another knock, slightly more forceful than the first, raps out. You walk to open it, sliding back the deadbolt and cracking the door open only slightly. A pair of obsidian eyes of the darkest calibre greet you, accompanied by the barest hint of a smile that has your knees turning to jelly.

"It is I."

You practically rip the door off its hinges in your haste to allow Jafar inside, shutting it as quickly as you had opened it. His voice is a candied music in the stillness of the night.

You peer at his face just as he slips the hood off his head, and you hate the pleasure that is twisting your insides, certain that he can see it painted clearly on your face.

"I have missed you," he says. He tries so hard not to touch you, for he sees the way your body leans slightly away whenever he gets too close. Instead, he brings a hand to your cheek, touching his fingers briefly to your skin before allowing his arm to fall to his side.

"And I as well," you answer, your blush deepening. You are barely looking at him; his eyes always feel like they are staring into the deepest parts of you, assessing and devising ways on how to best untangle your secrets.

Jafar glances to the flowers strewn about. "Well," he begins, brows raised, "it looks as if you are being kept quite busy these days." He, of course, knows all about the Summer Festival and the arduous task that comes with it, especially for someone who runs a flower stall.

Your quiet sigh fills the room. "Yes, I'm afraid I do. I hope I will have enough time to get everything done."

You feel Jafar's fingers reaching for your hand, which you allow him to hold. He does not wear his rings tonight. "Let's go somewhere for a while."

"Why? Where would we go?"

His gives you a wry smile. "Come now, are you really going to sit here and work all night? You will catch your death. At least consider taking some time away." You hesitate, looking between the flowers and Jafar. His breath tickles the shell of your ear. "You know you wish to. Spend the evening with me."

It is this that sends your heart into a maddening frenzy as you allow Jafar to lead you away into the night, his hand laced with yours.

Outside, the air is sticky and suffocating--the usual qualities of Agrabah's summer nights. The streets are mostly empty save for a group of adolescents sitting outside, trading stories of their day spent on the coast. The moon is bright and full, shining over the city like a pearl dropped from paradise itself.

Jafar spies a rickety ladder over the side of a building, and he climbs it in no time at all, making you wonder if some of the rumours about him hold any truth. At the top, he stretches out his hand for you to take, helping you up the ladder as you climb. You both sit side by side on the heated stone of the roof, the palace glittering in the distance like a forbidden jewel.

You shiver despite the humidity. Jafar notices this, and drapes his arm carefully around your shoulders. He takes great care to not make any sudden movements, because he understands that you are frightened by him as equally as you are enchanted. He only wishes he could make you understand that he is not here to harm you.

You finally break the silence between you, your voice floating over the sounds of cricket chirps all around you. "What will happen should this end badly?"

He tenses, not expecting this question, though he is ready with an answer, smooth as ever. "Then we shall either become bitter enemies, or we can remain friends. Either option is rather delightful, I think."

You know he is joking with the former and means nothing by it, but your smile does not quite reach your eyes, and you are trembling all over again.

Jafar's heart sinks. He strokes your hair, which is free of your shawl tonight, and whispers against your ear. "It is alright, you know. It is alright. I will not hurt you."

You nod, but your next set of words only serve to reveal your uncertainty. "You are Grand Vizier to the Sultan," you say, laughing incredulously. "And I am a mere flower merchant from the marketplace."

"Yes." He takes your chin in his hand, peering at you with those eyes forged of stardust and the remnants of eternity. "I am Grand Vizier to the Sultan, but I am still just a man." He closes the distance between you, chasing your lips with the gentlest of kisses. The desire to melt into him is stronger than ever, and you allow yourself to rest against his body, his arms wrapping around you in the most tender of ways. You could not have foreseen this, not in your wildest dreams.

It is not that you believe Jafar has bad intentions, but you know of his kind, those men who frequent the palace with their heads clouded by riches. You have seen for yourself how they treat the women of the kingdom like they are nothing, and even the court ladies are not spared.

No, it is not this fact that scares you. Rather, it is the fact that you are sitting next to a man with the entirety of Agrabah under his thumb--including the Sultan. Jafar strikes fear wherever he goes with his mere presence, and he can only be called severe and unnerving by the nobles and common folk alike. He is also very well-known for his silver tongue, which he has never tried to hide and uses on those who dare test his patience, something you have witnessed too many times in the past, before the weekly visits to your stall. It scares you not because there are two warring sides to him, but because this is a man with unimaginable power who will do with it as he pleases, and that is a most dangerous thing.

A question forms on your tongue, and you're not sure whether voicing it will incite his wrath, but you charge forward regardless. "Is it true what they say, that you once were..." You trail off, your boldness abandoning you at the thought of saying such a thing out loud.

Jafar waits expectantly, a half-smile beginning to stretch across his face. "Is it true that I was what?" You stare, your mouth suddenly dry. "Go on," he urges. "You can ask me whatever you like." It is here that it dawns on you that he knows precisely what you mean to ask, and there is not a single shred of anger crossing his features.

You try again. "Is it true that you were once a thief, before all this?"

His smile is blinding as he dips his head once. "Indeed. I make no effort to hide who I am, though it is not something I wish to proclaim at the top of my lungs either. The officials at the palace are not too thrilled at this unsavory part of my past, but I cannot say I give a damn. _I_ am Vizier to the Sultan; they are not."

You had guessed as much when he had begun appearing before you in disguise. Jafar had moved silently through the marketplace like a ghost each and every time, and even you cannot know how many times he must have been watching you from across the square, his presence unknown to all. Then there was the matter of him tucking that second daisy into your hair completely unnoticed, and that had given him away. Once a thief, always a thief, and now he is stealing more than simply jewels. Your heart races at the thought.

"Does this bother you?" Jafar asks, noting your silence.

You shake your head. "We all have things we would rather the world not know. Your past is your business and yours alone, and I do not care if you were a thief or not." You pause, gliding your tongue once over your lips. "I would enjoy your company even if you were still merely a thief."

Jafar tilts his head to look at you; his gaze could not be ripped away from you for anything in the world. "Truly?" His voice holds surprise and the warmth of sincere affection.

"Yes, truly."

He does not respond, but simply holds you closer against his body, his lips grazing the side of your face.

It feels as if only seconds have passed when he walks you back to your home, fingers laced with yours. He lets go of them before placing a kiss to your cheek, and the sensuous scrape of his beard makes you realize that this is simply not enough. You throw your arms around his neck, capturing his mouth with yours, and all coherent thought floats away as you feel his smile against you and his tongue wedging its way into your mouth.

It is Jafar who breaks the kiss, drawing back and studying you through the haze of your touch. He trails his fingers carefully over your jaw. "Goodnight," he says, laughter in his eyes. "Rest well. I will see you soon."

You nod, the shyness from earlier returning.

Jafar disappears into the night, floating back to the palace with his spirits soaring and his skin scented with the perfume of roses. A set of watchful eyes surveys him from a balcony on the upper levels, taking note of the vizier's every movement as he approaches the palace gates.


	3. What The Heart Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Summer Festival fast approaching, Jafar's responsibilities are becoming endless in number. To make matters worse, a certain member of the High Council will stop at nothing to meddle into his business. Jafar is falling quickly, and he can't help but find himself desiring much more of his beloved flower merchant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring you another chapter! Sorry for the slow updates, though I promise I haven't forgotten about either of my stories. I've been writing constantly for both of them. You all might have to wait a little longer for the next chapter of "The Shadowed Heart," since I decided I hated what I wrote after the chapter was finished, but you WILL get it soon. I also have yet *another* Jafar story in the works, which I'm actually really excited about. Thank you all for your love and support on my work; it's really encouraging on the bad days. If any of you want to keep up with me or have a chat, you can also find me over at hello-mintblooms on Tumblr. My blog is mostly Jafar content and writing updates, with a few other things sprinkled in. Enjoy!

"Grand Vizier, what do you make of this?"

Jafar's stare is glassy as he sits in on yet another useless Council meeting. Evidently, he wishes to be anywhere but here, and his expression is stony as the words of the speaking official whip right past his ears. If only he could murder them all in their sleep, but even that would be much too easy for a man such as himself.

The official hesitates, stumbling over his words. "My vizier?"

Jafar hears none of it, for he is too preoccupied with thoughts of flowers and stolen kisses. He is still thinking of the way you had thrown your arms around his neck a mere week before, begging for his kiss with your touch. He is so hopelessly lost, always counting the hours until he can see you again. Time is measured in weeks now, and he is floating through space, seeking his salvation through your hands.

 _Beautiful_. You are so beautiful. Your lips remind him of the succulent blossoms displayed at your stall.

It is when a complete hush falls over the assembled men, their glances nervous as they look to the Sultan and one another for guidance, that Jafar realizes he has just proclaimed to the entire room his opinion of your face. He arranges his hands neatly in his lap, behaving as if this slip of the tongue had gone unnoticed. He holds his head high, expression smooth and unforgiving.

The Sultan clears his throat, rephrasing the question that has been asked of Jafar twice now. "The floats, Jafar. What is your opinion of the floats? Shall we have one large one for the Summer Festival parade, or several?"

The Festival. Right. This is why his presence has been requested, for a trifle of a party.

Jafar then remembers that you will be quite involved in this particular trifle of a party, dispelling part of his sour mood. "I believe one will be sufficient," he drawls. "It would cheapen the entire affair to have several, and I do think that having one grand float will create a much more striking effect." Truly, he could care less, but the least he can do is pretend for the sake of keeping his position. Not that anyone would dare relieve him of it; he would kill anyone before they could even try.

The Sultan nods, pleased. He looks around the long table at the other men, arms spread wide as if inviting anyone to object. There are so many bodies crammed into the meeting room today due to the sheer amount of planning required for these summer celebrations.

No one says a word, though Jafar spies Abbas attempting to swallow down whatever ridiculous interjection is about to tumble from his mouth. Why the Minister for Infrastructure is here, Jafar has no idea, but he cannot say he is pleased at this fact. He bites his lip, thoughts swirling like a storm about to descend.

"If I may be so bold, my Sultan, the Grand Vizier looks quite unwell today." So much for the fool minding his tongue. Jafar's head snaps up, and he suddenly finds himself wishing Abbas would drop dead. The imbecile _has_ to be nearing sixty now. Isn't that about the time when one's health declines rapidly? No matter. He can always be taken care of in other ways.

Jafar tucks away that last thought for later. He smiles tightly, and all eyes in the room are on him. No one dares even breathe for fear they may offend the vizier. "I am quite well, thank you."

"Are you certain, Jafar?" says the Sultan. "You've been quite distracted as of late. Perhaps it is time you rested. You take your duties far too seriously."

 _Better than to not give a damn at all_ , he thinks.

"Perhaps it is due to the Grand Vizier's frequent outings as of late." A snake-like smirk curves over Abbas' face, and Jafar would like nothing more than to carve it right off. He spies one of the festival planners biting his nails and looking at anywhere but him. They are all idiots, every single one of them.

"I can assure you, I am perfectly well," Jafar hisses. "Besides, it is so unlike you, Minister, to stick your nose into the business of others. Perhaps a bit of distance would serve _you_ well."

"Come now, Jafar," booms the Sultan, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "I am sure Abbas means well. Some rest may be just what you need, especially before the festival."

What he needs is to have a dagger driven through his heart, because even the stillness of death would be a mercy compared to this utter nonsense.

At the end of the meeting, as Jafar is about to rise from his seat, Abbas' obnoxious murmur reaches his ears. "I would be very careful if I were you, Grand Vizier. Unless your intention is to shame the entire royal family, it might be in your best interests to...behave accordingly."

His brows raise questioningly, brushing off Abbas' words as nothing more than an empty scare-tactic. The man is out to get him; that much is becoming increasingly clear. "How sad it must be to run about lecturing others because you cannot contend with the fact that you are a mere speck of dust at the Sultan's side in comparison to one such as I."

Abbas' triumphant expression falls, but he does not back down. "We shall see who will remain a speck of dust."

Jafar's fingers curl into fists in his lap as the Minister and the rest of the men trickle out of the room. His options in relieving his anger consist of either murder, followed directly by treason, or feeling the calming warmth of your hands upon his cheeks. He thinks he would much prefer the latter, if at all possible.

He makes for the palace gardens, ready to oversee the festival preparations as he sends up a prayer to remain undisturbed for the rest of the day.

***

It is noon when you saunter across the palace grounds. A pair of servants help you to transport endless baskets of flowers from your carts to the gardens within the palace's center. These will be the flowers to grace all manner of things throughout the Summer Festival, and moving them from your home to the palace had been a tricky endeavor indeed. At first, you had felt utterly stupid at having no way to move them, but when a palace messenger came to inquire about your impending delivery scheduled for early this morning, he had also offered the assistance of several servants—which you had gladly accepted.

The gardens are lush and beautiful, boasting flowers that you could only ever dream of growing yourself. Each year at the start of summer, you are allowed to walk through this sprawling mass of greenery just once to make your deliveries. Though each visit is always brief, you are grateful for this annual stroll, allowing yourself to gaze upon endless fields of carefully-cultivated beauty. Nothing can compare to this.

Well, perhaps there _is_ one thing. You suppress a smile.

It feels as if it has been forever since you have last seen Jafar. Being able to greet  him nearly every day has made you spoiled, and you find yourself craving him in heavy doses as a result. You wonder where he is, what he's doing, what manner of thoughts are running through his head. He has responsibilities, especially at this time of year, but you cannot help but miss him the longer you are apart. He is not your lover, but he very well could be.

He _could_ be. Your stomach churns at the thought.

It has crossed your mind several times before that Jafar is merely toying with you. After all, you are far from naive. Over the years, you have seen time and time again how the women of the kingdom look at him, falling over themselves to catch a glimpse of his face on the rare occasions in which he moves about the streets. A man such as him has choice in regard to whom he associates with, and it is a fact that he may have his pick of any woman in the kingdom. He needs not even ask, for anyone—men or women alike—would dare not deny him his desires.

Besides this, it is very well known that Jafar makes it a habit to sneak all manner of women into his private chambers, particularly during times of turmoil within the palace walls. Tensions tend to run high between the members serving on the High Council, or so you've heard. The thought of him entertaining the company of anyone else sends you into a dizzying panic, though you know the possibility of him doing so is very real. He owes you nothing, and you would be foolish to believe you are the only one.

 _He is not your lover,_ you remind yourself. _He is Grand Vizier to the Sultan. He is not your lover. He can never be your lover._

You do your best to push these thoughts aside as you continue to assist the servants with unloading your flowers. Baskets upon baskets begin to fill the gardens, and you give very specific instructions on how to keep them alive in this heat until the start of the festival, which is only a few days away. The servant you are speaking to—a young man no older than yourself—appears desperate to hold onto your every word.

You look over the baskets lining the stone path leading into the palace. It seems everything is here and accounted for. You wipe the sweat beading at your forehead with the fabric of your shawl as you prepare to leave the grounds, but then a flash of gold in the distance catches your eye, and the floor shifts immediately from beneath your feet.

On the far side of the gardens, two royal guards flanking his rear, is a man who walks with purposeful steps, his head held high with pride. Even from this distance, you can make out his unblinking stare, his face a smooth canvas upon which no emotion stirs. His robes are made only from the finest silks—a most striking combination of jet black and scarlet—and the black turban which sits upon his head features a blood-red jewel winking ominously in the bright afternoon sunlight. You swallow hard, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight. Your heart is much too loud, even for you.

This is the first time you have seen Jafar in his finery, and the manner in which he carries himself is so different from his manner with you that for a second you believe this is a completely different man. Of course, you have spied him in the streets before dressed in these very robes, back before this all began. Still, you had never cared to pay him much attention. Why would you? He was just like all the other royals going about their business and thinking they were better than everyone else. But now—now you know better.

A blush creeps into your cheeks, and at first you think he is going to pass right by you, but then he takes note of the servants working in the gardens, his eyes darting between the different varieties of flowers. He is searching for something, and when he finally finds it, he stumbles a step, his grip firm on the gold serpent staff at his side. The guards behind him cease walking, copying his movements. Jafar's face is a hard mask, but light slowly soaks into his eyes when he finds your face. He whispers something to the guards and they are sent on their way before he begins walking toward you.

"Isn't this a surprise." His voice, gods his _voice_. There is nothing like it in all the world. You wish to sink into it and bask within its warmth forever.

"Grand Vizier," you say, bowing your head and averting your gaze. You are very well aware of the prying eyes all around you and of the expectation that a woman must never look upon royalty unless asked directly to do so. Not that Jafar has royal blood—which he has told you himself—but you know he has worked tirelessly for his position, and so he deserves the same respect owed to any other member of the royal family. "It is wonderful to see you well."

"I did not know the Sultan had scheduled a delivery for this afternoon." He looks to the flowers, packed carefully in their baskets.

"Actually, I have been here since this morning. It was quite the task to deliver all this, so I had some assistance."

"Interesting." The flatness of his tone forces your gaze to his. His eyes are hard. "I was not told you would be here."

For a moment you think you have angered him, that you have overstepped your boundaries in some way. Is he angry because he does not want you here? Should you have somehow sent a message to him explaining your arrival? You lower your gaze yet again, and your fears vanish to vapor when you feel his breath hot at your ear.  

"Come with me," he whispers. You cannot help the fluttering that beats within your chest.

He walks from the gardens and into an adjoining hall connected to the inner chambers of the palace. You have no choice but to follow, though you are careful to remain a good distance behind so as to not cause any scandal. Jafar would rather that you were pressed firmly at his side, proudly displayed at his arm for all to see, but he minds his tongue and continues on.

There is hardly time for you to take in the sights of the corridors, for Jafar is moving across the marble as if death is closely following at his heels. You catch snatches of art on the walls, richly colored tapestries hung at nearly every window, and swirling designs etched into the glass panes. Luxury is crammed into every available corner.

"Am I allowed to be here?" you ask tentatively. There are several servants floating about, and while they do not say anything, they shoot nervous glances in your direction. They probably think you are yet another woman that Jafar is sneaking into his rooms at all hours of the day to do with as he pleases.

 _No, stop. Stop this,_ you tell yourself. _This is not how he sees you. You mean more to him than that._

 _Are you sure?_ Another voice whispers at you from the darkness. _Are you sure you mean something to him? Why would you? You are nothing in comparison. You will never be good enough for anything other than warming his bed, and even that will be temporary._

" _I_ am allowed to be here," Jafar says coolly, half turning to face you, "so by extension, _you_ are allowed to be here." His voice pulls you back to the present, the dark remnants of your thoughts still swirling about like smoke. By the look on his face, you have not succeeded in dispelling these grim musings from your eyes. Worry floods his features, and he is about to open his mouth to ask if you're alright when he is interrupted seemingly from nowhere.

"What is the meaning of this? Really now, a woman?" A bony hand grips your forearm, and you jump, turning to see a man just past middle-age dressed in blue robes.

Jafar spins, rage replacing the worry etched over his face just moments ago. You note his sharp intake of breath as he tries to arrange his features into something resembling pleasantness. He is also desperate to resist the urge to break the man's fingers, though he cannot deny that this would give him great pleasure.  

"Yes, I know quite a shock it must be to you, Minister. The only woman you have likely seen up close is your mother." Your jaw nearly crashes to the floor, but you keep your expression as neutral as possible. Now _this_ is something you have not seen before.

The man's glare is frosty as he contemplates whether to match this insult with one of his own. He opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly, perhaps remembering who, exactly, stands before him.

"You know you are not supposed to—"

"Are you attempting to tell _me_ what I can and cannot do, Minister?" Jafar takes a most threatening step forward, his expression hard as he motions his chin in your direction. The man stands there wordlessly, though his grip on your arm loosens. "This is our flower merchant who will be providing her wares most generously for the Summer Festival. I am showing her around the palace so that she may better understand how to arrange her wares to our tastes." Jafar fails to mention that you have already seen to the delivery and arrangement of the flowers in question. He pries your arm gently from the Minister's grip and offers you his arm, which you take without hesitation.

"You are making a mockery of this palace, Jafar! If you step a single toe out of line..."

But Jafar does not get to hear whatever the Minister was about to say next, for he floats down the hall with you at his side, blissfully ignoring the tirade that comes. He yawns as if he has just awoken from a most pleasant nap.

"Who was that?" you ask once you are out of earshot.

"No one," Jafar replies. "A pest, but not one worth fretting over."

"Am I—am I going to get you into trouble?"

He offers you a small smile. "The only ones who will be getting into trouble are those who dare to defy me." You wonder if this includes you, but you try not to dwell on it. These last few weeks have been teeming with nothing but happiness, so you don't quite understand why your trust is wavering now, of all times. You shake your head, spying the horizon through an open window, and you guess you are on the upper-most level of the palace. "Through here."

Jafar leads you into a room so grand you almost feel it is a waste for your eyes to behold it. The ceilings are high, reminding you of the famed cathedrals which are said to stand in far-off kingdoms. In the centre sits a bed crafted from the most luxurious feathers, its coverlets and pillows painted deep scarlet with curling white and yellow designs. On the small table in front of it is a vase which overflows with flowers. The sunlight filtering through the glass doors of the adjoining balcony makes the petals nearly sparkle in the early afternoon light. You hear Jafar silently lock the door as you realize what you are looking at.

"My flowers," you say. Your fingers find the petals of a sunflower. "You kept them all." During your conversations at your stall, you had given Jafar plenty of advice on how to care for his purchases, but you never thought he had been listening nor cared. Your insides are liquid at the thought of him keeping this one reminder of you even when you are not around. Some of the flowers are withered, but here they sit, alive and as brightly-colored as the day they had begun to bloom.

Jafar sits at the edge of the bed, removing his turban and throwing it to the floor. He sets his staff down beside it, offering you his hand. You take it without a thought.

He pulls you onto his lap, and you note how careful he is to smooth your skirts beneath you so as to help preserve your modesty. He does not place his hands anywhere that may suggest that you are more than...more than what? What are you exactly? You suppose it does not matter. He has already stolen countless kisses from you, among other things, so you cannot understand his hesitation.

 _Unless he cares about you_ , you think. _He would not be so careful if he did not care_. You stifle these thoughts, for they are much too loud and spark a hope that can only end in disappointment.

He caresses your hair through your shawl, which is a soft sunset orange today.

"Is this alright?" Jafar thinks that perhaps taking you into his rooms like this has been a mistake, and he will gladly allow you to leave should you wish to. But he cannot deny that he wished desperately to see you, to feel you against him, to hold you close without an audience. He wants nothing more than to block out the rest of the world until it is only the two of you, limbs tangled with one another. A pang drums though him, and Jafar wonders if he will ever get that chance. Surely someone as lovely as you already has suitors vying for the opportunity to court you. He is just one more; being vizier to the Sultan makes no difference in matters of the heart.

He cannot help but hope against all odds that he will be the one you choose. Someday.

You rest your hands on either sides of his face, adjusting yourself so that you are straddling him. Jafar stifles a groan, closing his eyes against the sensation. His beard is rough against your palms.

"Why wouldn't it be alright?" You lean in to kiss him, assessing his face before you do, and his expression is the most serene you have ever seen it. He tastes of daylight and the playful beginnings of a promise meant to last.           

"Are you fond of me?" There is a note of worry in Jafar's tone, which you do not expect for a man so confident in his everyday dealings. You note the softness of his voice and the gentleness in his eyes, in his touch. Such a difference when comparing this to what you had seen earlier in the gardens and in the palace halls. Your blood thunders endlessly in your ears.

It is not that you do not wish to answer him, but rather, it is the fact that should you say anything now, you will undoubtedly reveal to him the truth, and that is something you are not sure that you are willing to do—not to him, and especially not to yourself. Not yet.

Instead you pepper his mouth with kisses, your hands smoothing over his cheeks and coming to rest at his waist. He is so close, so close that you can feel the heat of him through the drape of his robes.

"I can't hear you," he teases between kisses. "What can I do to loosen your tongue?"

You can think of all manner of things, most of which involve your hands and mouth on skin concealed by his clothing. You hope he does not see your blush. If he could read minds, you would already be halfway on the path to hell. Maybe you are already there. "Perhaps a few more kisses would suffice."

His laugh is intoxicating. "I may be able to indulge you." Jafar leans toward you, his nose brushing playfully against yours. Try as he might, but he cannot stop the half-moon smile that stretches across his face. You take note of the way his eyes curve slightly upward, and the small creases at the corners send your heart spinning out of control. His lips meet yours, moving slowly and softly as if afraid you will vanish before he can truly bask in the joy of this moment. If only this could be his forever. If only he could hold you like this until the earth turns to dust.

His hands are tightly gripping your hips, but you take them and place them on your breasts, feeling his quiet gasp against your mouth. He lightly skims his fingertips over you, though he wishes to do so much more. If this was any other woman, he would already be undressing you and pressing your face to his groin, but you are not any other woman, and this is much more than a secret one-time tryst.

Jafar's touch sends a satisfying pleasure trickling over your spine, and you roll your hips against his, not being able to resist the hold he has over you. His desire is undeniable, even through so many layers of fabric. He unleashes a groan, steadying your hips against his.

"Do not tempt me, darling," he breathes against your mouth. He knows that if you keep going, he will not be able to stop himself, and he does not know if you are ready nor willing to go there with him. There would be no returning from something like that. What he wants is for you to feel safe with him, to seek him out willingly rather than allow your fear to chain you. He hopes it is not fear which keeps you here, though sometimes, he catches the slight tremor of your voice and the quivering of your hands against his skin. He wants to ask what this is all about, but each time his courage fails him. He does not wish to find out that you are here only because you are afraid of telling him no. That would break him in a way that nothing else ever has.

"Would it be so bad to give into temptation?" You cannot say you would mind giving yourself completely to Jafar, even though he is neither your lover nor your husband. He has been nothing but kind—sweet, even—and though this is the case you are held back by a single shred of doubt. You have no desire to deny him anything, but what will his reaction be if you do? Would he have you killed, banished from Agrabah? There are many things worse than death, and you suspect that he knows this well.  

Jafar helps you off his lap, keeping your skirts flat against your skin as you shift off him. He lays back in bed, pulling you with him so that you are cradled against his chest. You inhale and notice the scent of flowers soaking his skin; he has taken on the very same notes that seem to follow you permanently wherever you go.

"No, it would not be so bad to give into temptation," he finally says. His voice is low and rumbles deeply against your body. "But perhaps—perhaps another time." He does not wish for it to be another time, but he cannot do this now. He must be certain.

Certain that you love him. Certain that you feel the same as—no. _No_. He must think logically. He cannot allow emotion to cloud his judgement.

 _Too late_ , he thinks.

You yawn, burying your face into his neck. Jafar laughs, low and hushed, as he brushes a kiss against your forehead. "Seems like someone has had quite the morning."

He's not wrong. You have barely slept all week, and the Summer Festival is only days away. You still need to prepare the floral crowns and bracelets you will sell at your stall during the nightly street celebrations. All your energy has gone into preparing the flowers for the palace that you have not been able to focus on much else.  

"I am alright," you say, even as another yawn rips through you. "I should go. I still have so much to do."

"Stay. Get some sleep." His breath tickles your ear, and your heart hammers at the suggestion. You peer at him expectantly.

"What? Sleep. I will be here when you awake." His fingertips brush gently over the curve of your jaw. "And I promise not to attempt anything devious while you lay dreaming." Silent laughter escapes you at this quip, and he smiles, pleased at your reaction.

It would not be so bad to get some sleep, you think. Just an hour. An hour would be more than sufficient. You try to convince yourself that it will be much easier to focus on your work once you have rested, but the truth is that you simply wish to remain at Jafar's side for however long he will allow it. His arms are wrapped tightly around you; nothing could tear him from you in this moment.

"Don't leave," you tell him as you close your eyes. "Stay with me." You are not sure if you are referring to his presence here and now, or something else entirely.

"I won't. I promise." You feel his lips at your forehead just as you are about to drift off. "You are safe."

And so you sleep, Jafar following once he has taken his fill of gazing at your face. He dreams of nothing, his nightmares chased away by the memory of your smile etched upon his heart.

 


	4. A Woman's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the arrival of the Summer Festival, Jafar works tirelessly to juggle his responsibilities as vizier between late-night visits to his beloved. His feelings betray him, leading him to steal away from the palace on the most crucial of nights. His flower merchant has a request for him, one that he dares not dream of refusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took everything out of me, and for good reason! Please note that the rating has been changed to "Explicit," so make sure to check the tags before going any further. I almost didn't post this one; my nervousness always gets the best of me. As always, feedback means the world to me, and thank you for always supporting me.

The sting of the thorns imbedded in your fingertips cause you to wince as you attempt to extract them, causing thin rivulets of blood to trickle slowly down and collect in the indents of your palms. You are usually so careful with roses, knowing precisely the manner in which to handle them. But you have been careless today, and you know exactly why. In some ways, you wish you didn't.  

A soft curse escapes your lips as the last of the thorns drop to the counter, the pads of your fingers throbbing weakly as a result. You smooth your tongue over the wounds, thoughts whirling invisibly in your head as you take in the sights and sounds of summer.

The marketplace is bubbling with excitement this morning as throngs of people mingle about in preparation for the day's events. There are many that you do not recognize, and from the plainness of their clothing, you assume that they are foreigners, likely gathered in Agrabah for the sole purpose of reveling in the Summer Festival. The opening ceremonies are to commence this afternoon, beginning with a formal address at the palace and with the traditional parade following shortly afterwards. You look forward to the streets being lined in an assortment of splendid colors, delicious strains of music as accompaniment—and of course, your flowers. You would not miss this parade for all the splendor in the world.  

Hundreds of merchants are packed tightly into the already brimming marketplace square that is overflowing with goods and boisterous conversation. The vendors are being more pushy than usual in selling their wares, which comes as no surprise since this is the time of year to make a good profit. The woman stationed at the stall next to yours—a jeweller specializing in earrings—is busy at work as she painstakingly loops tiny gold beads through the thinnest wire imaginable, bending it into shape. You stare at your own work, pride overflowing despite the injuries to your hands.

You sit behind your stall and take hold of the thin branches resting on the counter. You bend them into a sphere, binding the shape in place with a piece of twine hidden within the branches themselves. None of it will show once you cover it with roses, which you do so immediately. You take great care not to crush the petals as you affix the fragrant blooms to the crown you have fashioned. This particular one is a crown of blood-red roses sprinkled with baby's breath and ferns plucked from a field just at the city's edge. You grow everything yourself, but sometimes you just need that touch of a little something special.

Satisfied with your work, you place the floral crown into a large basket at your feet; it is near-bursting with crowns. What you have should be more than plenty to sell at this afternoon's parade, but you still have some leftover branches. With this, you decide to fashion a crown of daisies for yourself. You are allowed this one indulgence after all this back-breaking work.

The crown is simple, dotted with white daisies all around, and something deep within you stutters at your completed handiwork. You brace your palms against the counter, making a poor attempt at steadying your breath, the wood scratching against your wounds.

You cannot get him out of your mind. No matter what manner of drudgery you throw yourself into, what direction you force your thoughts, it is always his face which peers up at you from the darkness. Those eyes—those eyes which are able to lay you bare with one look—those eyes will be your undoing. Denying the truth would be useless at this point, because you have already lost this particular battle.

You are falling in love with him. You are falling in love with Jafar, and it is almost laughable, the truth scratching at your insides and rubbing you raw in a twisted mix of pain and pleasure. Pain because you know that it is ridiculous that you have allowed yourself to fall so far, even though you saw this coming in the weeks after you had come to know his true identity. Pain because he could never want someone of your station, not permanently, and certainly not with all the choice laid before him like an exquisite feast. And the pleasure? Well. The pleasure in an entirely different beast.

It is quite the effort to not think of what his body must look like beneath his robes, what expressions wash over his face when he is in the throes of passion, what his voice would sound like as you laid your hands over his—

Stop. _Stop_.

It is not that these thoughts do not give you pleasure, but rather, you know that if you continue on this path you will never be able to resist him and will fall gladly to your knees before him, a glorious mess for him to do with as he wishes. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but you wish for him to love you, a desire you will never voice; that will make it all too real.

And why would he? Why would he love you? You have nothing to offer him besides a modest fortune in worthless flowers and a body which must pale in comparison to all others he has taken pleasure in over the years. Your self-doubt has you swimming in thinly-veiled jealousy and a fear which shakes all that you are. Fear of rejection, of not being enough, of being temporary.

Despite this, there is little you would not give to be able to touch him in such an intimate way, even just once.

Your thoughts dissipate as a very tiny customer shyly approaches your stall. She looks to be no more than seven years of age, her rake-like frame just barely tall enough to pass the height of the counter.

"Why hello there," you say sweetly, stepping out from behind the stall and crouching down to her level. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

She nods bashfully and points to your basket filled with flower crowns. "Do you have a sunflower one? Mother said I could have one if I helped with chores."

You smile, reaching for the basket. "Just sunflowers, or would you prefer other flowers as well?" Your fingers rummage carefully, separating the crowns with a mindful touch. "If you'd like, I could craft you one with only sunflowers, if you're able to wait."

The girl shakes her head and gasps when she catches sight of a crown that has clearly sparked her interest. You follow her gaze and pick out the crown among the stack, which features three large sunflowers on one side, interspersed with white peach blossoms all around.

"That one," she says. "I'd like that one, please." She counts out ten gold coins from a small leather satchel and deposits them into your palm as you pass the crown to her. She immediately places it on her head, giggling as she hops away. "Thank you, miss!"

You wave, feeling a little lighter than before. This work is always worth it, if only to see the smiles drawn from your labor.

You slide back behind the counter, throwing the final crown you had just finished crafting into the basket. You try not to think of the onyx eyes permanently engraved into your memories, watching you even in their absence.

***

"I trust you have checked with the planners to confirm the day's schedule?"

"Already done, my Sultan."

Jafar is utterly exhausted, his voice cracked as he walks alongside his ruler. Royal guards line the halls in great numbers as they file neatly toward the palace gates. The procession for the Summer Festival is underway, and the jubilant shouts of the gathered crowds can be heard even from within the palace walls. Spirits are running high, but he cannot say the same for himself.

His involvement in this year's celebrations run deeper than previous years despite the Sultan having an entire team of planners at his disposal for this very purpose. The fact that Jafar, of all people, had been asked to oversee the preparations suggested that the Sultan continues to hire idiots to do his bidding, or that Jafar is trusted above all others. He would like to believe that it is the latter.

The last time he had seen you, he woke from his bed to the realization that he had slept well into the evening, causing him to miss at least two crucial appointments. Your exhaustion must have surpassed his own, since you had not woken once since drifting away at his side. Regret rushed through him as he had roused you to tell you he had had to go. He could have simply allowed you to remain in his bed as he attended to his business, but he would not risk the servants walking in unannounced, nor would he entertain unwanted questions. And so he had kissed you once, briefly, crushing your body to his as he murmured his goodbyes and armed you with the promise that he would see you again soon.

The heat is absolutely choking today. Jafar wears robes of pure scarlet from head to toe, broken up only by gold jewellery and golden accents threaded through the fabric. He despises social functions of any kind, and having to go through this year after year is quite possibly the most humiliating ordeal he has ever had to contend with. But he pushes through, each and every time, if only to remind the world that he is their vizier and the only official in the palace who gives even half a damn about how this kingdom is run. Perhaps the Sultan cares as well, but his choice of High Council members as of late leaves much to be desired.

The Summer Parade is a lavish affair teeming with dancers, fire-breathers, and other magnificent party tricks. Even Jafar has no choice but to admit the splendor of this display. He stands on a grand float stationed in the middle of the road which is covered in hundreds, if not thousands of flowers, the scent reaching his nose and immediately rushing to his head. The size of each individual bloom tells him without a doubt that these have been cultivated by your hands and yours alone. Beside him, the Sultan sits in a throne fashioned from all manner of precious metals as he waves to those jumping excitedly in the crowd. Naturally, the princess is nowhere to be seen, and has likely stolen away to meet the most recent object of her infatuation. Jafar cannot really criticize her, for he has been doing exactly the same.

All around is a sea of people ablaze with life and color, squeezed into every crevice of the streets like jeweled beetles. Some hold makeshift flags, and the children wave sticks upon which hang colored ribbons of various fabrics. The drummers in front of the float—whom are dressed in royal blue—begin their raucous composition, signalling to the guards stationed all around to commence pulling the float forward. The crowd's applause is thunderous.

Jafar's face is like granite, his head held high, as the float begins to trawl forward. He spies garlands hung over and between buildings, dotted with flowers and sky lanterns which will be lit later this evening. He finds himself wondering whether he will be able to steal away into the night, but he doubts it. The palace will be heavily guarded, making it a challenge for even him to slip silently by. His authority will not be questioned, but he prefers to be seen as little as possible. He cannot help himself from allowing his eyes to rove over the crowd, looking for something that he will likely not find.  

Faces and flags blur into one another, making the bystanders look nearly identical. There is hardly enough room to stand as is, and anyone wishing to wedge their way to the front to get a closer look at the parade would only be trampled in the process. Jafar looks to the rooftops, his fingers tightening around his staff as he spies several groups of people watching the procession from above, but he knows you would not be up there. You have prepared far too long and hard for this event to sit leisurely at a distance.

He puts on the performance of his life as he surveys every minute detail from the corners of his eyes; no expression dares sink into his face.

And it is then that he sees you, your smiling face forcing all the breath from his body in one fell sweep. The sound of the drums is suddenly far away, replaced with the thudding of his own heart.  

You are wedging your way to the front of the crowd, smiling and laughing and shouting to the get the attention of the revellers. The dress that you wear is a soft yellow, a matching shawl covering your hair and a thin slip of fabric cloaked over your shoulders. The color reminds him of the daffodils you had once shown him excitedly after failing to grow any for months. Before you, he wouldn't have known the difference between a daffodil or a dandelion.

A large basket filled with floral crowns hangs from your wrist. You hardly need to make much effort to sell your wares, for the people are the ones who approach you, and you hand over your work in twos and threes as you place your payment in the bottom of the basket.

The float comes to a standstill, giving the dancers at the front of the procession an opportunity to begin their performance. He cannot see them very well, but they are like peacocks, their jewel-toned bodies moving gracefully to the celebratory strains of music floating through the city.

"Jafar, you should go take a closer look. This only happens once a year, after all." The Sultan motions his head in encouragement, and the most Jafar can do is give a tight-lipped smile.

"I can see them well enough from here."

Jafar estimates that if he moves now, he will have the chance to at the very least make his presence known to you. He thinks momentarily of what this particular audience will see, but if he's being honest, he could care less. He can do what he likes, and what he would like more than anything is to have your full attention, even if only for a few moments. He looks to the float, flowers tucked into every available inch of space, hoping to find the white petals of a daisy. Seeing none, he reaches for the next-best thing: a blood-red rose, cultivated through the softness of your hands.

He steps cautiously off the float, mindful not to trip over his robes. The Sultan notices the absence of his vizier at his side, but says nothing when he spies the rose grasped between his fingers. Curiosity grips him momentarily as he watches Jafar tap you softly on the shoulder. You turn, and the vizier's smile is exquisite as he takes you in. The Sultan assumes an expression of bemusement, his lips curving beneath his long beard. Of all the surprises, he supposes that this is the most shocking and pleasant one of all.

The crowd watching the parade seems to hold a collective breath at Jafar's approach. They have seen him only from a distance, but perhaps even more startling is the fact that he has just smiled. The vizier does not smile, nor did anyone believe he was capable of making any facial expressions that conveyed something other than disgust or harsh judgement. Until now, that is. The only times he has ever walked through a crowd this large was to dote out punishment to anyone that so much as looked at him the wrong way. Several gasps ripple through the onlookers at what happens next.

Jafar takes the rose grasped between his fingers and tucks it almost lovingly behind your ear, secure in your shawl, just as he had done that very first time. This flower does not resemble the daisy he had purchased from you many months ago, but the significance of it is clear. You wish you could communicate to him the pounding of your heart with more than just your eyes.

He leans in close, as close as he is able without causing any scandal. He could stand here and allow his eyes to roam over the softness of your face for hours. "A flower fit for the future wife of a vizier, wouldn't you agree?" He doesn't know why he says it, but the words are already out, and your bewildered expression earns you a smile that is riddled with unbound joy. Though no one has heard him but you, the crowd whispers frantically among themselves, averting their gaze from their vizier as is custom. It is as if they are certain that this behavior is an omen meant to foretell Agrabah's destruction, for if Jafar smiles, then it must be a sign of impending disaster.

"When will I see you?" Your murmur is hopeful, and Jafar finds his heart dissolving at the sound of your voice.

"Soon," he whispers. "I promise it will be soon. Wait for me."

He is about to return to the float, which still sits in the middle of the road. The dancers' performance has ended, and the guards look to the Sultan, waiting for instructions. The man acts as if he has not noticed.

You reach out and tug at Jafar's robes, and the crowd goes still as death. Perhaps an execution will take place rather than a celebration. The Sultan watches with sharp eyes from his throne, nearly standing to get a better look before remembering himself.

You release Jafar's robes, a blush creeping into your cheeks as you stumble over your words. You do not look at him. "I—forgive me, I just..."

You offer him a flower crown from your basket, and it is not just any crown, but the one you had crafted earlier from nothing but daises. This does not go unnoticed, and he takes it, his eyes softening as his fingers brush purposely against yours. Jafar allows you to fasten the crown to the sash at his waist—a waist which you have come to know all too well and envision in your fantasies late at night. His eyes are on you, begging you to look at him. You do, and the whispers return, wild and unrestrained.

Jafar smiles and inclines his head in the tiniest of nods. There is nothing more he can say, not here, even though he desperately wishes to.

"What are you all whispering about?" he spits at the gossiping crowd. They go silent, muttering their apologies as he traces his steps back to the float and resumes a blank expression. On the inside, his emotions float freely, untamed and tipping over with happiness. The Sultan hides his smile well.

***

The fireworks blaze across the sky in shades of gold and greens and pinks, making the backdrop of stars and moonlight bleed with color. Though the air is humid, there is a slight chill that descends upon the streets like a thick fog. Laughter belonging to giddy children float through the night, and you spy people dancing around small fires, lost in the cheerful notes of music that drift through the streets. The paper lanterns strung alongside and between the buildings are lit, blanketing the night in an otherworldly glow that can be reproduced by little else.

You sit behind your stall, admiring the decor and feeling as if you are in a completely different world. The flower crowns which you had so painstakingly crafted had all been sold long before night fell, and you had nearly considered making more. You just might, but you have made more than enough of a profit to keep you afloat for a while yet. All that remain are a few single flowers, but even these are dwindling in number.

_A flower fit for the future wife of a vizier, wouldn't you agree?_

Jafar's words play over again in your mind, an endless song rife with addiction. You have not been able to stop thinking of those words even though it is likely he was only teasing, just as he always does when you are together. But the intimacy in his tone had suggested otherwise, and you are not sure if you wish to ask him about it. You put it from your mind, deciding that you are not ready to nurse a broken heart quite yet.

You stand, leaning against the wall as a wave of loneliness washes over you. The Summer Festival has always brought you nothing but fond memories, having attended each year with your parents. As travelling flower merchants, it is rare that you see them, and having them around was a most precious thing. You did not think you would be spending another year alone, but no one is to blame for it. Jafar has already risked much through his secret outings, and you would not ask him to risk any more than is necessary.

"Miss?" A voice interrupts your thoughts, and you see it is the jeweller whose stall is always stationed right by yours. She holds out a small square package wrapped in yellow paper—a yellow that matches your dress almost exactly. "I was asked to deliver this to you."

You stare, confused. "There must be some mistake. I never placed an order." You wouldn't, either, as you know this woman's wares to fetch quite a pretty penny. Her work is certainly beautiful, but expensive, and for good reason.

She beams, placing the box firmly in your hands. "You may not have, but that handsome man of yours certainly did."

This causes something in your chest to stir madly. You tear off the paper, opening the box. Inside is a pair of earrings, and you recognize them as the ones the woman had been working on earlier in the day. They are a mix between traditional drop and dangle earrings, fashioned from dozens of tiny golden beads shaped into an intricate, swirling design. Each earring is finished off with three large, taupe crystals hanging from the ends. You give a soft gasp at the way the warm glow of the lanterns bounce off the glass.

"They're stunning." This is all you can manage, because not only have you never owned anything so expensive and beautiful in all your life, but the gift comes from someone whom is so very near and dear to your heart.

"Thank you, miss," the woman says. "Your admirer made it clear that I use only my best materials."

You try not to think about how much gold the earrings must have cost. Not that it makes a difference to the purchaser. "Uh, what did this...admirer look like?"

The woman chews thoughtfully on her lip. "Tall, dressed in a long brown robe, hood over his head." She pauses, racking her mind for more details. "Had eyes as black as I've ever seen them. Pleasant voice too." This last descriptor causes you to hide your smile behind your hand.

"Sounds just about right," you say. "Thank you again for delivering them. They really are lovely."

The jeweller nods, a smile curving over her face as she slips back behind her stall. You thread the earrings through your lobes immediately, skimming your fingers over them and smiling like a fool. Even if he cannot make himself visible, Jafar always has his ways.

You allow your weight to sink fully against the wall behind you, wondering whether you should pack up the rest of your flowers. It _is_ barely midnight, but there are very few of the single stems left, and you doubt that Jafar will make an appearance at this hour. A pang sounds through you at the realization of exactly just how much you miss him. Seeing him for those few precious moments at the parade had not been enough to quench your thirst.

A gasp is ripped from your throat as a hand covers your mouth from behind, an arm snaking around your waist. You relax the moment you feel that same hand lowering and splaying firmly over your hips, the other at your waist.

You would know those hands anywhere, even if you were left deaf and blind and bereft of all your senses. They are possessive, needy, and grip you with the intention to melt into you and pry open all that you are with a purposeful touch. You lay your palms over his fingers, feeling the strength in his touch and the veins mapped like the leaves of a flower. Your rear is pressed firmly against his front, hot breath at your ear and laughter creeping into his voice.

"Is this a bad time?" Jafar's lips meet with your neck, and you feel the sensation of his commoner robes brushing against the small flash of exposed skin.

You half turn, taking your fill of his face before kissing him full on the mouth. Your kisses are desperate, eager, filled with a need to have him in any way possible. He returns your kisses with his own, his hunger insatiable.

"It's never a bad time when it comes to you," you whine, tearing yourself away to rake your lips against his jaw. That blasted beard. It is going to be your ruin.

"I have to say, I am glad to see you as well." He fingers the earrings dangling from your lobes, and a satisfied smirk appears over his face. "Lovely. They suit you just as I had hoped." His lips connect with your cheek, his hands warm upon your back.

"So it was you." You cannot stop yourself from skimming your fingertips over his cheeks; you miss him more and more each time you are apart. "This was unnecessary, you know."

"Do you not like them?"

"They're beautiful," you say. "And most appreciated. But I'm hardly worth—"

He steals a kiss, silencing you at once. " _You_ are beautiful, and _you_ are worth everything."

Your cheeks turn pink at his words. "I did not think you would come."

"Believe me, love, I always get what I want." He tugs on a lock of your hair that has escaped from your shawl. "Come, let's go. Perhaps to somewhere less...public."

His hand finds yours as he makes to pull you away into the side street from which he had come, but you give his fingers a squeeze, motioning to the stall and the remaining flowers displayed on the counter. "I can't just leave everything behind." This is a lie, of course. No fool in their right mind would even consider stealing flowers when so many other goods of high value are displayed out in the open. Besides, the price of these final flowers are not worth staying around for. They will not keep for much longer and will soon begin to wither.

"I can help you pack up, if you wish." His laughter is back, and you can hear it bubbling through his words, wrapping around each and every one like a waterfall bursting forth.

You wet your lips, fighting against the smile ripping across your face. "Perhaps. Or I suppose we could just... _vanish_."

His eyes light up at this, brows raising suggestively. "And where do you wish to vanish, my flower girl?"

You think immediately of your home which sits just opposite the square, tucked between quiet streets a few blocks over. Jafar has only ever been inside on one occasion, when he had slipped silently behind you in a way that only a former thief would, going to steal his very first kiss. The memory causes your steps to falter.

Tightening your hand around his fingers, you begin pulling him through the square, pushing between the tight crowds as politely as you are able. The static that crackles between the both of you is undeniable. Something has changed between this encounter and the last.   

As you round the corner into your district, you spy no more than three royal guards patrolling the streets. They give a curt nod as you pass, continuing on with their business. Jafar's face is wrapped in fabric, his hood up and only his eyes visible. You can see the hesitation there, the suspicion unfurling like a sudden storm. It dissipates when you lead him through your door, your fingers shaking to lock it shut.

Jafar has you pinned to the wall the moment the deadbolt slides over the frame. His arms lift you up, bunching up the fabric of your dress to your thighs. His voice is like gravel as he ghosts his hands over your legs, his lips never leaving yours. This is the first time he has ever touched you without your permission, but even with the wildness of his touch, he is still careful, controlled. Something has shifted between you,  for the air is filled not with the innocence of first love, blowing in the wind like silk, but of two people who are completely and hopelessly infatuated with one another and are about to cross one very final line.

He suddenly rips himself away from you, chest heaving, realization sinking in at what he has just done. You have never seen Jafar blush before, but you swear you can make out a reddish sheen beneath his beard.

"I—I apologize. Forgive me for being so—"

A hand reaches out to grab the front of his robes, effectively silencing him as he rests flush against you. Your kiss is soft, emerging from a place of deepest love and yearning for this man whom you are so utterly obsessed with. He relaxes into your touch, sinking into you when he realizes his mistake was not a mistake at all.

You draw back, hands resting on his shoulders and caressing him through his robes. You're not sure what he sees on your face, but whatever it is remains loud enough that he feels it necessary to voice his concerns out loud.

"Talk to me." His voice is but a murmur against your lips. "Tell me what weighs upon your mind."

You hate the way he reads you so well, the way he can interpret the space between your words with those onyx eyes. Nervousness crawls through your insides, and he can tell there is something at the tip of your tongue dying to break free.

How to put into words that you wish to have him laid bare before you? Somehow, you don't think there are enough words in the world to politely voice this one request. Worse still, you don't know how to tell him that you want him on your own terms, because your fear is still equal to your desire even though right now the latter is winning the battle over the other. It is not him which you fear, but the uncertainty that lays in every touch, in every secret encounter. You will not bed him, not completely, not until you are certain.

Certain that he loves you. Certain that he feels precisely the same emotions that cleave your soul in two whenever you so much as think his name. Indeed, there is no reversing the love that time has cemented firmly upon your heart.

With shaking fingers, you undo the slip of fabric at his waist which holds his robes together. He allows your hand to slip inside, and you find the delicate folds of his tunic, feeling the heat of his skin and his heart drumming like thunder in his chest. Your own heart isn't faring any better.

You dare a glance at his face, and it is clear that Jafar had stopped breathing in the moment it took for you to reach for his waist. His nostrils flare, and that is how you know he is fighting against himself in an effort to avoid ripping off your dress and doing as he wishes.

"I wish to touch you." Your words are barely audible despite the silence of the room. The only other sounds are the popping of the fireworks outside and faint laughter floating down from the main square. Your words act as a blade severing an already-taut thread.

Jafar's eyes go round, shining several shades of black. You could almost pick out each individual hue if only you had the time. The fingers gripping your hip tighten, and the low, breathless timbre of his voice forces heat to rush between your thighs, burning in a way you never thought possible.

"You are certain?" he murmurs, voice strained and rather thin. But you nod, and this prompts him to continue. "Because whatever your wish, whatever your desire, you know I will give you the world if it is within my means." He cups your chin, forcing you to look at nowhere but him as he kisses you. He does not close his eyes all the way. "Never be afraid to confide in me."

He draws all the way back, and you have the heart to whimper as he moves away, feeling the loss of his body against yours. The perfume of flowers is sunk heavily into the walls, and it will never disappear completely.

You swallow hard, nearly choking at the thought of what you are about to do. He stands, waiting for your instructions. "Get undressed." You don't know how you're still able to look him in the eye as the words are released into the world, but you do, your body vanishing instantly and replaced by a dizziness stronger than any force on earth.

His eyes never leave your face as he allows his robes to drop to the floor, nor when he pulls the tunic over his head, nor when he kicks off his boots, dropping his trousers and kicking them off once they land around his ankles. He hesitates here, but you nod at him, reassuring him that it is alright, that this is exactly what you have willingly resigned yourself to.

You may as well meet your end here, and if that should be the case you have made peace with that, simply because you are gazing at the most beautiful man you have ever chanced upon. Your knees tremble, and you wish you'd had the sense to at the very least sit before you began to watch him undress. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have possibly prepared you for the way that Jafar looks beneath his clothing. There is not enough air in the world to bring you back to your senses.

He is perfection. Even in the darkness of the room, his skin holds a glow which can only come from spending a ridiculous amount of time outdoors. Even though he always towers over you, you'd mistakenly believed his frame to be smaller than it is. But it is anything but, and every part of his body is carved from hard muscle—no doubt an after-effect of his days thieving in Shirabad which he had clearly been able to maintain. Heat rushes between your legs when your eyes land between his thighs.

Your mouth goes dry, legs pressing firmly together beneath your dress. At this point you would be willing to do almost anything to feel him inside you, spreading you apart.

Jafar merely stands, gaze unreadable as he takes in every expression shifting across your face. It is clear he has done this before, although never quite like this.

"Turn around," you whisper. You are rooted in place by your pounding heart, but he spins, granting your request without a thought. "Like that. Stop."

Your lips part of their own accord, your knees failing you as you behold the muscles rippling in his back, the strength in his thighs and rear. You think he could really do some damage to you with that body, and you cannot say you would mind at all.

"Jafar." The sound of his name forces him to turn, and he stands facing forward once again, his desire completely exposed in every way possible. "Lie back." Your lips quiver, even as your mouth releases its hold on the words.

You could take him upstairs, to your actual bed, but you know you won't make it very far. Instead you have him lie on the tarp you had placed over the floor to prepare your flowers, and you walk over to him, folding his robes as neatly as you can as you tuck them beneath his head. This is the best you can do for him, and he seems to understand. You feel his lips touch the inside of your wrist, then connect with the stinging marks on your fingertips. He rests his arms at his sides, and you consider the fact that he must have control forged by the very gods themselves, but who knows how long it will last.

You look at him directly as you slip the straps of your dress down your shoulders, never tearing your gaze away once. "Please don't do this," he breathes with an exasperation you have never heard before. You know he doesn't mean it in the way it comes across, far from it, but he seems to read what you are going to do, and he is powerless to do much but heed your every command.   

The straps fall, as does the bodice of your dress, completely exposing your breasts to him. If you will not bed him, you will at least allow yourself the pleasure of feeling his skin against you in some way. "No touching," you tell him. "You can look, but not touch." There is no teasing edge to your voice, no playfulness. Only seriousness which alerts him to precisely how panicked you must be. So panicked that he almost considers putting an end to this and tucking you into bed.

But he can't, because he wants this just as much, if not more than you. His selfishness overrides any other emotion. Nodding at your request, he smoothes his tongue over his lips, lust burning through his body.

You remove your shawl and twist your hair into a knot at the base of your neck, fingers reaching to unhook the earrings you wear. Jafar's hand closes abruptly over your wrist. "Don't," he breathes. "Leave those on. I wish to see them on you."

You obey, and he lies back once more as you crawl over him, allowing the hard flesh of your breasts to graze over his skin which drives him to suck in a sharp breath. Your lips meet the side of his face, and the grate of his beard against the sensitive skin of your mouth is enough to send you permanently to the edge of no return.

Touching your lips to his, you realize he is slack beneath you, regarding you through open eyes as if in disbelief that this is his reality. You try to move your mouth against his, but he still doesn't move, and your panic spills over.

"You _can_ kiss me, you know. That's allowed." At your words, his lips begin to move, a sigh escaping him as his tongue darts inside your mouth. His arms are flush at his sides.

Jafar's gaze flits between your face and your breasts, which are now resting firmly against his chest. He doesn't seem sure where to keep his eyes, though he finally settles on your face, thinking this to be the least offensive course of action. But you want him to see you, for you would not be here if you didn't, and though Jafar understands, he is fighting his own body every step of the way. If he had his way, he would already be buried inside you.

"You are going to kill me," he purrs. "And something tells me you will be enjoying every moment."

 You smile shyly, dipping your head to the place where his neck connects with his shoulder, earrings clicking softly and your tongue flicking against the sensitive skin there. His eyes close, relishing in the sensation, and you take this opportunity to kiss a slow trail over his chest, all the way down his torso. Your teeth graze his skin, just barely readying him for the bites you place there. Jafar's broken moans fill the silence, and he can't help but hope that he will bruise, for he wishes to see the evidence of this night upon his body for the days and weeks to come.

Your hands drop to his thighs, brushing over the thick, dark hair there. His body shudders, hopelessly lost in the branding of his skin. He is yours, and he will bend to your every whim.

His control is slipping, for his hands tremble when he reaches for the hem of your dress, pushing up the fabric to reveal your legs. You allow him this one reprieve, and then you feel his fingers smooth over your inner thighs at an excruciating pace, between the wetness pooling between your legs. Sweat beads at his temples as he pushes aside the fabric concealing your desire, and he slides his fingers over you, closing his eyes, his breath stuttered. It is as if he feels the need to reassure himself that he is having the same effect on you that you have on him, that this is completely a choice of your own making, that you desire him as much as he desires you.

He allows his hand to drop and opens his eyes, face coated with sweat and gazing at you as if he is seeing you for the first time.

"No touching, remember?" Your whisper is as sinful as your lips ghosting over his skin. Despite your warning, you cannot deny that what you want is precisely for him to touch you. But not yet, not now.

Jafar has to admit that he has never had a woman touch his body in such a wicked way. Oh, he has been touched, has been touched in ways that would send the nobility reeling, but this is different. What you are doing is something akin to worshipping a deity, which he most certainly is not. But in this moment, your hands and mouth upon him, he feels very much like the deity you are making him out to be. He feels cherished, wanted—and dare he say it—loved. Not even the power that comes with being vizier can ever hope to match the power you bestow him through your lips and the blissful touch of your hands. Those hands—those hands he has dreamed of and fantasized about since the first time he had seen you at your stall. If he had known it would come to this, he would have revealed to you his identity long ago.

The sounds he makes when your lips begin to kiss down the length of his arousal are nothing short of desperate. Your lips are so soft against him, teasing and licking and kissing at his flesh. His hands find your hair, and he pulls, rising to rest on his elbows so he can watch your mouth move against him. The sight leaves him breathless and drowning in euphoria. You stare up at him, eyes smiling as you begin dripping saliva all over him. You are breaking him, completely and utterly.

" _Please_." The word comes as a hiss. Jafar has never begged for anything in his life, and certainly not for mere carnal pleasures. This is the first time, and he knows it will not be the last. "Please," he says again.

This time, you take him completely into your mouth, and he shudders beneath you, his fingers wrapped around your hair, mouth falling open in silent screams that form the letters of your name. He tries to look at you, wants to see your pretty lips wrapped around him, but the pleasure is too much, and so he settles for laying as still as he can, laid bare for you to do as you wish.

What he wouldn't give to thrust his hips into you and have you choke on him, but he promised. He promised he would not interfere.

You grip his thighs, taking in as much of him as you can, your eyes stinging in the process. And as you stare up at Jafar, your mouth full of him, you see him throw his head back in ecstasy, completely lost in the pleasure. He is so far gone, his hands tightening further in your hair, and he is so close to spilling himself inside your mouth—so close, in fact, that he feels he should warn you as your lips continue to slide over him at a merciless pace.

He doesn't have to, because you are soon taking him into your fist and gliding your hand firmly over him, twisting your wrist sharply as you guide him between your breasts, squeezing them around him. You engulf the tip of him with your tongue, and you do not fault him for thrusting against you, his breath choked and your name on his lips as he finds his release, one furious stroke at a time. Your breasts are a sticky mess, and the heat between your thighs burns sharply. His strangled cry reaches your ears, his body slick with sweat as he gasps for air that pales in comparison to what you are able to give him.  

You hover over him for what seems like an eternity, motionless as his eyes rake over the mess he has made over your breasts. His skin is completely soaked, his chest falling and rising rapidly as he comes back down to earth. After tonight, there is no going back; he knows he will never be satisfied until he has you completely.

You find your shawl on the floor and are about the wipe away the evidence of Jafar's release when he gently pries it from your fingers and does it himself. He cleans you off almost tenderly, his hands careful and practiced as he pulls up the bodice of your dress and pushes the straps back up your shoulders. It's not that he doesn't wish to see you; it's quite the opposite. But if this continues now he knows where his actions will lead. He rests his hands on either side of your face, cradling you gently as he pulls you onto his lap, arms wrapping around you and his lips finding yours in an instant.

He pours all of himself into that kiss, making it linger like a bruise. If he plays his cards right, you _will_ be his. He will not take that choice away from you, but he wishes more than anything to be able to call you his, to have you be something more than this, whatever _this_ is.

"Thank you," you tell him. Your hands are on his shoulders, caressing his skin lightly. You still feel a need to touch him. A dull ache thuds in your jaw, and you welcome it.

He chuckles, disbelieving. His voice is low, the cloud of lust ebbing away. "I cannot say I have ever had a woman thanking me after making love." This was most certainly not making love, but it was close. Jafar feels his heart swelling in his throat, the truth descending upon him in merciless droves.  

You offer him a small smile, your usual shyness returning. "Thank you for being patient, for—for being kind. For allowing me to—"

He presses a finger to your lips. "I already told you, whatever your desire, it is yours. You will have it. Besides, you need not thank me for doing the bare minimum." Now it is his turn to become shy. "It is I who should be thanking you." For all his daring earlier, he is unable to look you straight in the face. No one had made him tremble like that before—no one—and if he looks at you now he fears it will give him away completely.

You brush kisses to his cheek, his jaw, and the sighs that escape him are the most exquisite sounds you've heard in all your life. "Stay the night."

He kisses the tip of your nose. "As much as I wish to, darling, you know I cannot."

"Please," you try again, continuing to blaze kisses over his face, his neck, his shoulders. " _Please_ stay the night. You leave me much too soon, Jafar."

He is not sure which of the three undoes him: your lips ghosting over his face, the way you whispered his name, or the low whine in your voice. It doesn't really matter either way, because he knows he will stay, regardless of how much trouble it will cost him back at the palace.

"I suppose I have no choice but to indulge you after this most incredible party trick of yours." You playfully punch his shoulder, and he takes hold of your hand, placing a quick kiss to your knuckles.

You stop him when he tries to dress. "It's much too hot," you say. "And I think I rather prefer you like this."

He smirks, taking you into his arms and peppering your face with kisses. Jafar has never felt so utterly fulfilled. If only he could take this moment and tuck it into his pocket to look back on as he sees fit.  

He does not know that this is the last time he will see you.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm about to destroy lives in Chapter 5. Jafar is just a little *too* happy. My apologies in advance! ;)


	5. Yesterday's Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to the unexplained absence of his flower merchant, Jafar attempts to contact her while nursing a broken heart. His own doubts plague him endlessly, and he is determined to find answers even if it destroys him. Meanwhile, his beloved receives news that leads her to make a decision that just might change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry; I feel like I should apologize in advance for this chapter. While writing this one, I was listening to a song called "Heartbeat" by BTS, and it is definitely THEIR song! I highly encourage you to give it a listen. Most of it isn't in English, so you can do a quick Google search for the English lyrics. Honestly, I kind of broke my own heart here. If you've stuck by me this long, thank you so much for reading, and as always, your comments and kudos mean the world to me!

"You are nothing but an insufferable, incorrigible _bastard_ , and I shall feed your shriveled manhood to the palace dogs if you dare insult me one more time!"

It is precisely these words which had prompted the Sultan to summon the vizier to his private study. Jafar cannot particularly say he regrets his outburst, for Abbas had spoken completely out of line, spouting nonsense that anyone in possession of even half a brain could have recognized. Truth be told, Jafar had been ready to pluck out the man's innards in full view of the High Council, completely indifferent as to whom stood as witness or what would happen to him after the fact. He almost regrets not doing so.

Hamed's study is a quiet haven among the relentless clamor of the rest of the palace. The halls always seem to be a winding labyrinth of bodies roaming about, guards stationed at every door as the nobles chatter incessantly about nothing of consequence. The study, therefore, is a most welcome refuge—even though Jafar is certainly not here for pleasantries.

The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the lanterns. A desk—which is a rather flashy piece of craftsmanship—sits in the middle of the room with books, paper and ink strewn about its surface. Hamed—and Jafar would never call him that despite the man's insistence over the years—sits behind it, hands folded neatly atop a large tome titled _Political History Through the Ages_. He regards his vizier with an unsettling expression over his face. Behind him are books which dot the walls like pearls, beckoning any prospective seeker with gold-lettered spines. Jafar coughs quietly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. His leg begins to quiver furiously up and down; he stills almost instantly when the Sultan's gaze travels to his shifting robes.

"I take it you know why you are here?" Hamed's tone is surprisingly gentle; no mocking edge can be found here.

Jafar nods, and he resists the temptation to rolls his eyes. His face is as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. "Because I called Abbas an insufferable, inco—"

Hamed's sigh is loud and heavy, filling the room with an exhaustion that comes not from physical labor, but from knowing the truth which even his vizier does not wish to face. "I am relieving you of your duties for the next week."

The words are a silent explosion in the room, shattering whatever remains of Jafar's feeble sanity. His face is a mixture of astonishment and alarm, and he decides that this is what it would feel like to have everything of value ripped from him in the most brutal manner imaginable.

Except he has already had the only thing that matters taken from him, so this is simply one additional blow to embitter his already miserable existence.

"Oh, do not give me that look Jafar. This is not a punishment. And certainly not for spitting the truth at our dearest Abbas." He smiles wryly at Jafar's raised brows. "Yes, you are not the only one who is wary of the poor fool."

"My Sultan, I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

Leaning back slightly in his chair, Hamed crosses his arms over his chest as he regards Jafar with a measured, unblinking stare. However, there is a fondness in his gaze that Jafar has seen only once before when he had first been brought to the palace. "This is about more than a mere disagreement with Abbas. What troubles you?"

What troubles him? What troubles him is that the woman he loves has refused to answer his letters and seems to have vanished into the very air itself, but he is not about to say such a thing to Hamed. "Nothing. The Minister's suggestion merely caught me off guard. He was spouting nonsense, as I'm sure you are very well aware. There is nothing more to it than that."

There is some kernel of truth to this little white lie. After all, Abbas _had_ suggested that it would be a marvelous idea to demolish the eastern side of the marketplace in order to install a monstrous wishing well fashioned from gold—presumably in an effort to fatten the palace treasury. The market already boasts a perfectly fine fountain crafted from marble, and not only is this a preposterous idea, but it is a complete waste of funds. Jafar is no fool; he knows for a fact that the suggestion was made precisely to get a rise from him, to spur him on in revealing what Abbas so desperately wishes to know. There is not a single shred of doubt that the Minister wishes to ruin him, to bring him down and watch him burn as the man takes from him the position he has worked tirelessly to keep.  

The eastern side of the marketplace boasts a single flower stall, stationed right at the corner, and Abbas is very well aware of this. Jafar silently vows to use the man's beard for a new rug after he skins him alive.

"Somehow I think it is much more than that." Hamed's voice takes on a very rare edge, though it softens at the tensing of Jafar's jaw. "This is because of that girl at the parade."

Jafar stills, his expression resembling that of a fish splashing against the sand. "You cannot really believe that I—"

"I do not wish to interfere into your personal matters. However..." Hamed studies his vizier through sharp eyes. "I must ask you: who was that girl?"

Jafar debates whether answering truthfully is worth the humiliation of the Sultan knowing that he actually does possess a heart bigger than the size of a pea. As it stands, he does not have very many options, as he is backed into a corner with a spying High Council official at his heels, and a ruler who appears more concerned than anything else.

Gods, he hates pity. He is usually so cautious, but it means nothing here. He has failed miserably to keep his own secrets. "She is..." She is what? His friend? His lover? A body to warm his bed? A mistake of his own doing? He settles on the safest choice, though the words are stiff and sound stupid even to him. "She is a friend."

Hamed strokes his beard, a sly grin beginning to creep beneath the mass of grey and white. "A friend, you say? I have never known you to present roses to women who are merely friends. Didn't even think you had friends, if I'm being honest. No offense meant, of course."

Jafar flushes, caught in his lie. Hamed had been right next to him during the parade, but he didn't think the man had been paying that much attention. "Truly, my Sultan, there has been a misunderstanding. There is nothing more to this than Abbas being a nuisance. You have my highest assurance."

Hamed's eyes bore into his for what feels like hours, and Jafar matches his stare, not daring to look away for fear of what his usually-pristine mask may give away. This man is no fool, regardless of how much he may wish him to be. Jafar suddenly feels as if he is on trial for murder.

"Have you ever considered taking a wife?"

He simply stares, certain that he is in some manner of fever dream in which he has died and is now being burned alive for all the sins committed during his life.

"You are so young," continues Hamed, pointedly ignoring his vizier's panicked expression, "and I think that being alone is doing you more harm than good. You are always locked up in this palace, working yourself into a downright mess." Well. That's one way to put it. "Your efforts are certainly appreciated, and I think you know as well as I that this place could never run without you. However, a wife may do you some good."

"I—"

"Besides, I believe you will not have any trouble in entering into a courtship. The ladies of the kingdom have always seemed to take a liking to you. Choice is not an issue."

Jafar's mouth opens, but he cannot form any words that could even begin to address Hamed's ludicrous suggestions. The directness of the Sultan's words is making him uncomfortable, though this is not the first time that he has spoken with him in such a manner. Even so, he would prefer to avoid it completely, as he has never been a man to wear his emotions for all the world to see, and he is not about to start now.

"You are kind, my Sultan," he begins carefully, "but you must understand that my duties here take priority. I have very little time for much else."

A brilliant light enters Hamed's face; amusement floods his features. What can he possibly find funny? "It seems to me you have more than enough time if you're leaping from windows at all hours of the night."

The thudding of Jafar's heart takes on the sound of camels racing across the desert sands. Dizziness takes hold of him, and had he not been seated he would likely have swayed right off his feet and be kissing the ground.

Hamed knows. He has always known.

"The guards do talk amongst themselves Jafar, even if they do not talk directly to me." His voice is soft, taking on the tone of a parent speaking to a young child.

"I can explain," Jafar begins, a note of fear wrapping around his words. He really does not know how he will explain, exactly, but he knows that he does not wish to. He cannot even fault Abbas for this particular oversight, because even that cretin is intelligent enough not to go prattling off to the Sultan. Jafar's secret will be tucked away in the darkness, to be used against him as a weapon when he least expects it. This he is certain of.  

"I do not need explanations nor apologies. As I have said, I will not meddle, though if you wish to leave you may do so at any time using the front gates. There is no need to skulk like a thief in the shadows." He pauses, noting the tiredness seeping into Jafar's face. "I do not know precisely what ails you, and you do not need to tell me, but what I do know is that this has something to do with that girl. Whatever she is to you...she seems rather important. Perhaps an outing of sorts..."

You _are_ important, so important that Jafar feels his heart in his throat whenever he so much as thinks your name. He cannot even begin to speculate how and when his happiness had turned to ash right before his very eyes. One moment you were there, your mouth and hands upon him, and the next you were gone, ignoring his letters without so much as an explanation why. Has he angered you in some way, offended you? Is there something he ought to have done that he hadn't? Had you been so disgusted by his body that you'd decided he wasn't worth your time any longer?

Whatever the reason, he feels the cracks in his heart growing deeper with each passing day, and every letter unanswered brings him closer and closer to breaking completely apart. He tries desperately not to think of that night spent on your floor, the sound of your earrings clicking together, serving as a reminder of your lips pressed to his neck. Crimson floods his cheeks.

"I am...having a difficult time. That much is true." This is all he can say, for the strength is being leeched from his body with every word he is forced to utter.  He cannot reveal anything else. He _won't_.

Hamed rises to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Think on it. Take the next week to gather your thoughts and see to your business, whatever that may be."

"The Minister—"

"Abbas shall be dealt with. For once in your life, please worry about yourself. You are too valuable to lose to mere stress. You are dismissed."

Valuable? He wants to laugh. You certainly don't seem to think so. He is worthless, worthless to the very core.

Jafar sweeps into a bow, staff gripped tightly around his fingers as he exits the room. He must find you, if only to know the truth and lay to rest the ghosts which taunt him in his dreams and nightmares.  

***

The moment he enters his private chambers, Jafar calls for the servants to draw him a bath. He wishes to have a few minutes to himself, to either collect himself or weep, he's really not sure which.

Iago's perch stands empty by the window, and on the sill rests a letter, the wax seal untouched and as pristine as the moment he had sent it off days ago. Jafar's throat constricts painfully, tears stinging at his eyes and frustration spilling over. This is the third one that has been returned to him unopened.

He blinks, fighting against the tears threatening to spill and hating himself for allowing anyone to have this much power over him. As angry and wounded as he is by your silence, it is his worry that stands strongest through the pain. Worry that something has gone terribly awry, though he is not sure what.

He has been trapped in the palace like a prized songbird for the last several months—two, to be precise. It would have been foolish of him to leave, especially when he now knows without a doubt that he is being watched. Even though the guards are his to command, it is impossible to gauge who remains trustworthy, and recent events have only proven that trust is nothing more than an empty shell of a word.

Any attempts to send a message with Iago have so far proven unsuccessful. He had only wished to alert you to that fact that he cannot see you, that he has not abandoned you, that he misses you beyond measure, and that he will return soon.

Iago has never once failed Jafar; the parrot can be counted on to deliver notes with ease or peck out a man's eyes on command. Which raises the question of why—why have the letters been returned? Has Iago truly been unable to locate you, or is there something much more sinister at play?

With tears pouring silently forth and wetting his cheeks, Jafar spies the crystal vase perched in the centre of the room. The flowers filling it have long since withered, the petals blackened and curling, dry leaves scattered on the plush carpet. Seeing them sends a wave of violent rage slamming through him, causing him to take hold of the vase and smashing it forcefully against the wall. The sharp sound of glass shattering crashes against his ears, shards flying in all directions and resembling the pieces of his own heart. Jafar unleashes a roar that surprises even him, his tears now falling freely, blurring his vision as he sinks his body onto the bed. His head falls into his hands, shoulders shaking as he tries desperately to hold onto anything that will stop him from sinking further and further into this tunnel of endless despair.

He was so sure that you loved him, _so_ sure. If not love, then perhaps something resembling affection. The way you glanced timidly at him, the manner in which you tenderly held his face between your hands, the shyness in your kiss...he had been so certain. How could he have been so wrong? Had it all been a lie?

Jafar has never dealt with a broken heart before, but he thinks this is what he feels. This is what it feels like to have everything you didn't know you wanted violently torn away—torn so violently that all that's left is a screaming, bleeding heap begging for the pain to stop.

He cannot go on with this uncertainty gnawing at his bones.

Striding to the open window, he takes a breath and wipes hastily at his cheeks. He sends out a single, low whistle into the thick afternoon air. Five seconds is all it takes for a mass of scarlet feathers to soar into the room, wings outstretched as it lands on its master's waiting arm.

"You've been floating about spying, have you? At least you're still good for something." Jafar's fingers reach to smooth over the bird's wing. His touch is gentle. "Well, why have you not delivered the letter?"

Iago ruffles his feathers and gives a loud squawk. "Not there, Master."

"What do you mean, 'not there'?"

"Not there," repeats the parrot. "House empty."

Jafar bites his lip, nerves shot to hell and back. He cannot say he likes this particular combination of words. _House empty_. He either means that you were simply out, or...

Or you have fled Agrabah. And judging by your complete and utter rejection of him, it very well could be the latter. It must be, because what other explanation is there?

His heart cannot bear anymore disappointment. He has promised himself—promised you—from the very day he had revealed himself to you that he would not force his hand should you not wish to be with him. That is a promise he intends to honor until the very end, no matter how bitter the taste. But before that—before that, he must know the truth. He cannot move past this until he knows the truth.

Seeing no other sound options, Jafar weighs the risks of sending out his guards. If he chooses to embark upon this route, there is a possibility that Abbas will discover him, especially if he has planted his own men within the ranks of Jafar's inner circle. On the other hand, if he chooses to do nothing, he risks waiting yet another month for answers that will surely not come. It is this which cements his decision, firm as stone.

"Go find Hakim," he says to Iago. "Bring him to me immediately. Make yourself unseen and unheard."

The parrot obeys without protest.

***

Two months.

It has been two months since you have last heard from Jafar. You have begun to lose hope, and your thoughts are a mess of tangled vines, choking  you each time the image of his face appears in your mind. You do not wish to think it, but you are almost certain that he has abandoned you.

Unable to bear the memories that overtake you whenever you are in the marketplace, you have recently made a habit of disappearing into the nearby oasis towns that lay just through the desert. The journey usually takes a day or two at most, and so you see no reason to return to Agrabah immediately, not when you have nothing to return to. You have been unable to sell your flowers during your many journeys, but that is something that is almost a comfort to you. You simply wish to rest, to rest and remain as far as possible from those cutting, blackened eyes and the emotions they elicit from you.

Today, you are back in Agrabah, the first day back since leaving about a week ago; this had been your third journey back. As you arrange bouquets of flowers at your stall, you cannot help but drown in your own thoughts. Not even your flowers can take your mind off the constant soliloquy looping through your head as you work. It is a song and dance that you have become quite used to, and you treat the accompanying gloom as a dear friend whom you have not seen in ages.

Why had you believed it would be a good idea to be intimate with him, and so soon? Had he grown bored, or perhaps found another? Of course he had taken what you had given him that night and run at the first possible opportunity. What man wishes to stay with a woman who gives all that she has for free? You are ashamed of yourself, and perhaps even more ashamed for believing that he had been different, that maybe there could be the possibility that he loved you. The rumors had proved to be true, just like all the others. He _has_ been toying with you, and now you will pay the price for your naiveté.

And even as you think this, even as you tell yourself that he never cared, that you are as disposable to him as a common street woman, traitorous hope ripples through your blood. It has been months; surely you know that he will not return to you.

You haven't sold much today, but that is probably due to the fact that your spirits have never been lower. A smile sells more goods than a frown, and today, that frown is your window through which you survey the world. A sigh escapes your lips, your head dropping onto the counter in defeat.

"I hear the Grand Vizier has been quite busy."

Your ears instantly perk up, heart beating rapidly at those two words which force your soul to sing and shatter all at once. The voice belongs to the jeweller who sells her wares from the stall next to yours. The same jeweller who had fashioned the earrings that were gifted to you by Jafar. You force down the lump beginning to form in your throat.

"Isn't he always busy?" This second voice is much higher than the first. Another woman, likely a customer. You do not like the suggestiveness of her tone. "Who knows what he gets up to in that palace."

"Well." The jeweller's voice takes on a conspiratorial tinge. "I hear that he was seen taking not one, but _two_ women into his private rooms the other night. I can't say I blame him. I would be bored too if I was forced to lounge about leisurely all day."

The other woman laughs loudly, your heart disintegrating at once. Tears kiss your cheeks like rain against glass, and you take a breath, holding back the sobs which you know are struggling to break free from their cage. You have not cried even once before today, would not allow yourself to, and the fact that you are about to do so only solidifies the fact that Jafar means everything to you while you remain nothing to him. You both love him and hate him with a terrifying ferocity.

"How scandalous! I'm not surprised. He _is_ quite handsome. I cannot say I would mind warming his bed, even for a night."

You try to block out the voices, because your vision swims with blobs of color which bleed into one another. If you listen to any more, you know you will crumble, and that is one victory you absolutely refuse to give that man.

 _Breathe_ , you tell yourself. _Breathe. You don't even know if any of that is true._

But it can be true, and as much as you hate to admit it, it likely is.

All that remains of Jafar are memories, memories of him kissing you for the first time and the subsequent times after. Memories of your hands over his bare skin, the gasps and sighs ripped from his throat. Memories of his voice whispering in your ear.

Memories that will continue to haunt you long after his sudden—but not so unexpected—departure.

You hastily wipe at your eyes before pasting on a fake smile. It is alright. You will persevere. You are strong, and you will not allow this to ruin you. You will put this behind you, and one day you will be able to look back and laugh at the choices you once made.

You turn your attention back to your flowers, arranging bouquets when a customer approaches your stall.

An artificial smile curves over your face, and you hope the plastic of it is undetectable. "Good afternoon, how may I—" You break off when you notice the royal blue cloaking the customer in question.

It is not a customer, but a royal guard hailing from the palace. All the breath rushes out from your lungs.

"Are you the flower merchant who runs this stall?"

The man's voice is hushed, and he wears a beard similar in style to that gracing Jafar's face. He is familiar, and it dawns on you that he was the guard who had nodded at you the first night of the Summer Festival.

"I am." The urge to run pulses through you. You remember the suspicion in Jafar's eyes that night as the guards had passed. It had been fleeting and had vanished in a moment, but it had been there.

"I have been asked to deliver this to you." The guard holds out a letter, stamped with the official seal of the palace.

You take it with shaking fingers and are about to ask what it contains, but the guard has already taken his leave as you stand there with the envelope gripped in your hand. You break the wax seal and take out a single sheet of paper. What you see is enough to send your entire world spinning.

_This notice is to inform you that a cease and desist has been brought against you. Effective immediately, you will cease all business-related activities in the marketplace for failing to provide a valid merchant license. Failure to comply in ceasing the aforementioned activity will hereby result in an appearance before the High Court of Agrabah. You will be held responsible for all monetary losses resulting from a trial, which must be paid at the time of the hearing._

_Sincerely,  
Jafar, Grand Vizier to the Sultan of Agrabah_

You are too stunned to speak, your eyes roving over the lines of text again and again. The writing is curved, delicate, and though you have never seen it before, you are certain that it belongs to the person whose name is signed at the bottom of the page.

This time you do weep, collapsing into a pathetic mound behind your stall. You do not care who sees or hears. Violent sobs rock through you, and you allow the tears to spill, releasing all the emotion you have locked tightly shut in the past months.

It is over. It is all over, and it is here that you make your choice—a choice with which you intend to take back all that he has taken from you. If it is your absence from this place that he desires, then it is your absence that he shall get.

You pack up your flowers and head home to gather your belongings—a home that will be no more after  today.


	6. Forget-Me-Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a loss as to what to do, Jafar sends out his most trusted guard to search for his flower merchant. Unfortunately, Hakim returns without news, prompting the guard to take a more personal approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end! I can't thank you all enough for your support on this story. Enjoy, and feedback is always more than welcome!

The sky is a tapestry of blackest velvet, the stars shining like silver beads sewn into the fabric. Jafar has been pacing restlessly all night, unable to find even the tiniest sliver of comfort in the nothingness which sleep offers. The thudding of his heart shakes his entire frame, and he wouldn't be surprised if the sound carried through these very walls. He is waiting. Waiting for the news that will damn him or save him; things could go either way.

He grips the window ledge as his eyes survey the sleeping city below. The skies are clear, and moonbeams bathe his skin in the glory of the night. No sign of Iago, however. The parrot has been awake for infinite stretches of time as of late, taking to the skies in the hopes of finding whatever his master seeks. Jafar didn't think it possible for a bird to feel anything even remotely close to human emotions—that is, until Iago had brazenly ignored all his instructions to stay put and rest. At first Jafar had thought this to be nothing more than mere spite, but the bird rests only when he does, sleeps only when he does, and that is when he knew this was something more. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or concerned.

His anger at you has ebbed away, softened to curling ribbons of smoke which now choke him into a breathless pool of fear. Your safety is his first concern. The rest—whether or not you want him still—that he will contend with later.

A soft knock thuds out against the door. Judging by the position of the moon in the sky, it must be close to three in the morning.

Hakim bows at the waist before striding into the room and closing the door behind him. He is dressed in the white and gold armor which only the captain of Agrabah's military wears. His long beard is neatly trimmed, though there are shadows under the man's eyes that can only come from days and nights spent roaming the city streets, searching for the very thing which has eluded Jafar for months. A momentary shred of guilt devours him for the fool's errand he has assigned to his captain, but it cannot be helped. He trusts no one else to keep his secrets, and time is not on his side.

"Well, what is it? Any news?"

Hakim gives a regretful shake of his head. He takes in Jafar's disheveled state, his bare torso and the look of wildness playing about his eyes. "Nothing, my vizier. We searched her home as you requested, but it was empty. No sign of forced entry either. It is as if the whole place had been scrubbed clean and left to sit there for weeks."

Jafar runs a hand through his raven curls, courtesy of weeks-long neglect on his part. He really could not give any less of a damn about his appearance these days. "You are certain?" Hakim nods. "What of the nearby merchants? Have you questioned them at all? Surely they know something."

"Already done, but they are adamant that they know nothing. She has not been seen since—well, since the week after you last saw her."

This is impossible. Surely someone must have seen you. One who has been selling flowers her entire life on the same corner does not suddenly vanish in a matter of weeks. "And the bumbling fool?" Jafar asks, venom bleeding into his words. "I assume you have been keeping a close watch over him?"

When Jafar had given Hakim instructions to pursue Abbas, he had known that it would be a matter of time before he'd have to reveal the truth. Sending Hakim out blind on such a mission would have been preferable, but doing so in this particular instance would ensure only disaster. The guard had listened patiently throughout Jafar's confession, to what he had been up to the last several months and to where he'd been disappearing to. Hakim had shown no judgment whatsoever as he had laid bare his heart, because he knew that for him to even consider doing so meant that you were important, perhaps even more important than his own position as vizier. This was a first. Hakim is the only man which Jafar trusts, and as it stands, his only option to find you. As much as he hates to admit it, he cannot do this alone. Not this time.

"I have been seeing to his every movements," Hakim says smoothly. "He never leaves the palace, though I have begun to notice the same group of guards at his side quite frequently. They are very careful to hide this fact."

Jafar suddenly has a vision of the guards he had seen traipsing through the streets on the night of the Summer Festival. Surely they cannot be the same ones. "How many?"

"Three."

Jafar unleashes a soft curse. "Is there anything else?"

Hakim hesitates for only a split-second before reaching behind him to untie something from the sash at his waist. He holds out a flower crown, and Jafar's jaw goes slack. The crown boasts three sunflowers on one side, blackened and crumbling, while the rest of the crown is strung with white blossoms that have long since spoiled. "I found this while searching the Minister's room. Does it mean anything to you?"

Jafar takes it with shaking fingers, teeth grinding. He cradles it in his hands as if it holds all the untold secrets of the universe. "This is certainly her work. Without a doubt." He takes in the perfect curvature of the sphere, the carefully positioned flowers, the size of the petals.

This makes no sense. Why would Abbas have your flowers in his possession? Such floral crowns had only been available during the Festival, so it must have come into his possession then. But why? Abbas intends to take the position of vizier from him, which begs the question if this is some manner of warning. Does he intend to make a trade, you in exchange for the position of vizier?

 _No_. Jafar would die before he gives up either.

Hakim's voice interrupts his racing thoughts. It is a voice flooded with warmth and the absolute certainty of a man who knows where his loyalty lies. "What do you wish for me to do? I have eyes and ears stationed in every hallway, at each entrance and exit to the palace and within the marketplace. I am ready to give orders when you are."

Jafar is lost, so utterly and helplessly lost. There are choices to be made, but the more time that passes, the more certain he is that every path which stretches before him is rife with disappointment. Easy choices do not exist, only difficult ones.

"Jafar?" Hakim places a tentative hand on his arm, feeling the tensing of his muscles beneath his skin. "Do not lose heart. We will find her. You have my word that I will not fail you."

There is no doubt in Jafar's mind that Hakim will keep his promise. He looks at the man whom he knows will blindly follow him until the very end, to whatever ruin he may lead them all to. He touches his captain's wrist lightly, grateful that at least he has someone who is deserving of the title of friend.

"Continue to keep an eye on that treacherous snake. Report back to me here in exactly six hours. For the time being, continue to do as you have." Hakim turns for the door, the softness in Jafar's next set of words making his steps falter. "Thank you, my friend."

A smile tugs at Hakim's lips as he leaves his vizier to his own devices.             

***

If there is one thing that you have learned from Jafar, it is that night is the best cloak with which to blend seamlessly into the city walls.

Hugging your shapeless robes tightly around you, you tread through the winding streets, your steps as slow and silent as you can make them. Returning to Agrabah had not been part of your plan, but the compulsion to return, just one last time, had been much too strong to ignore.

After the initial sting of Jafar's betrayal had dulled, you had proceeded to pack up the few possessions which you deemed too important to leave behind and set off for the desert. You weren't sure of what to do—still aren't sure if you're honest—because there is no place outside this kingdom where you might conduct a profitable business, not in the same way you have here. You could do as your parents have, trawling through the kingdoms as a wandering merchant, but it is not a viable option. Not for you, anyway. Not for what you wish to get from this life. All you know is that you cannot remain here, under the hateful gaze of the Grand Vizier and allow yourself to be humiliated even more than you already have.

Scanning the area, you round into the marketplace square, practically sprinting toward the eastern corner. The counter of your stall is spotless except for the small grooves where your knife had scraped gently through flower stems each day. Seeing this place now, bereft of the life it once held almost makes you weep.

You shut your eyes against the memories spilling forth like water. He is here, his presence swirling about like sunshine, even when he is physically not around. The reminder of his lips against yours and a daisy tucked behind your ear is a blade pressed against your throat. Tears are wasted on him.

Soft footsteps echo in the stillness of the night, causing a wave of panic to rise in your chest. You spin in place, your knees going weak at the sight of three royal guards, one stationed at each entrance to the market. It is not completely out of the realm of possibility to believe they had followed you, for these men are trained to remain undetectable. The third guard is walking slowly toward you, and recognition sparks in your eyes at his approach. He wears white and gold, and even without those damning colors, you would have known his name just from glimpsing the flat hardness of his eyes and the tangle of his beard.

It is Hakim, captain of Agrabah's royal guard and Jafar's right hand.

You have only ever seen Hakim from afar, but his reputation stalks him like a shadowy nightmare wherever he goes. It is a reputation which paints the picture of an honorable man who exudes kindness and strength, both outward and inward. His manner is known to be quiet, gentle, but there is no doubt he can be severe when he must.

A good man he may be, but he is trained to kill regardless. If Jafar's notice had been any indication, he is not here to exchange pleasantries.

Hakim slows as he draws closer, his hands visible and spread out in front of him. "I am not here to harm you." You eye the dagger at his side, and he follows your gaze, reaching for it and setting it down on the ground before him. "Please, listen to me."

You take a steadying breath, but the air in your lungs does nothing to calm your nerves. Your gaze flickers to the guards stationed at the entrances. "What of them?"

Hakim does not miss the quiver in your voice. "They are under my orders and are merely here as a precaution."

"Precaution for what? In case I try to run?"

"You misunderstand. Jafar did not send me." You tilt your head at this admission. "I need to speak with you. It is imperative that you listen to what I have to say."

You consider his words and decide he is being genuine. There is no malice on Hakim's face, no sign of ill-intentions. It has not escaped you how careful his movements are, but you have the mind to believe he is lying, that Jafar has indeed sent him. Why else would he be here? And more importantly, how would he know to approach so cautiously? You know the answer, but it's something you'd rather not think about.

Weighing the risk, you silently turn and lead Hakim through the narrow alley into your district. If he has been searching for you—if Jafar has been searching for you—then he knows precisely where you live. 

You lead him inside your home, finding the door unlocked and feeling more and more like an animal being lead to slaughter. He will not kill you. Haul you to the palace, perhaps, but not kill. Jafar would have his head for that.

 _Stop_ , you tell yourself. _Jafar is the one who wanted you gone in the first place. What does it matter to him if you are harmed? He will not shed a single tear._

You sit close to the door, eyes pinned firmly on Hakim as he sinks onto the stone opposite you. The silence twists through the air. He is the first to speak, sensing that should he wait any longer, you might just change your mind. 

"He has been searching for you for months. You cannot possibly understand what your absence has caused."

So he knows. Of _course_ he knows. You wonder just how much Jafar has told him, though knowing him, he must have only done so because there was no other option. But why? What was the alternative? What had frightened Jafar so much that he had been willing to betray all his secrets to his captain?

"What _my_ absence has caused?" Your tone is surprisingly even for all that he is accusing you of. "What about what _his_ absence has caused? I will not return to that man, not after what he has done."

Wariness skims over the surface of Hakim's expression, as if something more rests on his tongue that he cannot say. "You don't understand. Jafar—" His voice takes on a new kind of softness as the name passes his lips. "Jafar has not been well. He thinks no one has noticed, thinks that I do not notice, but I have. He does not sleep, refuses meals, spends every waking moment locked either in his study or private rooms." He hesitates, unsure of whether he should say more. "Sometimes—sometimes he weeps during the night when I make my patrols, when he believes the halls to be empty. I have told no one, but..."

Something becomes apparent very quickly as Hakim speaks of his vizier. His tone turns softer, warmer, and you recognize the look in his eyes as the very same one which passes over your face whenever Jafar had held you, whenever his smile curved at the corners of his lips. It is impossible— _has_ to be—but you swear that there is affection here which resembles something more than that of a guard serving his master.

The rest of Hakim's words refuse to register, and when you don't answer, you see rage begin to build behind that quiet, carefully-crafted exterior. "Do you have any idea what it is like to watch him like this, to watch him wither away because some woman has decided she would rather break his heart just to spite him? Do you have any idea what that is like?" You flinch at the sharpness of his tone. "Because if I was lucky enough to be in your position, I would cherish him every single day in any way I could."

Your voice, when you finally  find it, is small and pathetic. "He abandoned me. Why was I not good enough?" Hakim shifts closer, his manner softening at the glassiness of your stare. He does not touch you, though he almost wishes he could. "Why did he serve me with that notice?"

Before he has time to ask questions, you produce the folded up slip of paper from within your robes and hand it to Hakim. You are almost ashamed to admit it, but you have kept the note with you at all times as a reminder of your poor choices. It has been a punishment to read it again and again, but perhaps that is exactly what you deserve for thinking that you could ever call the Grand Vizier of Agrabah your own.

Alarm is etched across Hakim's face as he reads through the lines of text. "This is not his handwriting."

This is not what you had expected to hear. "What do you mean? He signed it. That's his name right there." You point to the bottom of the page. "A royal guard handed it to me while I was at my stall."

Hakim traces the curve of the delicate characters inscribed on the page. "No. See here?" He taps his finger against the signature at the bottom. "When he signs his name, the strokes sweep downwards only slightly on the right side, then curve back upwards. These marks are much too rigid. It is not his handwriting."

You don't ask how he knows this, but you suppose that he would typically be the one to deliver Jafar's messages for him, and would therefore have become quite familiar with his writing.

You want to believe him, but you don't want your hope crushed as it always seems to be. "If it's not his, then whose?"

Hakim pockets the note. "That is what we are going to find out. Though I have my suspicions." He stares at you. "Do not think for one moment that he would abandon you in such a cruel manner. Yes, my vizier _is_ cruel, but not like this."

"Why has he not come to see me then? What explanation do you have for that?"

"Perhaps you should ask him yourself."

The last thing you want is to put yourself in a situation where you are forced to see Jafar. Because if you do, if you allow yourself to go there, you know you will fall to your knees before him, a weeping, unruly mess, and beg for his forgiveness for whatever you have done to anger him. You _will_ go back to him, you _want_ to, and you are disgusted with yourself for it.

Inhaling sharply, you weigh your options. Surely it can't hurt to speak to him, to hear what he has to say? The worst that can happen is you'll be rejected and laughed at and be sent on your way. You can survive that; you've survived much worse.

But what if Hakim is wrong? What if Jafar had actually been the one to write that note? What will happen then?

Hakim continues on, putting a stop to your never-ending anxieties. "If you wish to see him, I can bring him to you. It will be tricky, but it can be done. If you do not wish to see him... Jafar has made it very clear that I relay to you that he will not bother you again should you wish to deny him."

"I thought you said he didn't send you." Hakim smiles for the first time since finding you tonight. It is answer enough and simply confirms what you had suspected.

Jafar _has_ sent him. Your heart is suddenly much too loud, your words floating through the air before you can stop yourself. "How soon? How soon can you bring him to me?"

Hakim's smile widens. "Immediately. I will send for him at once.


	7. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hakim's tireless efforts, Jafar is finally reunited with his beloved. In doing so, the Grand Vizier of Agrabah reveals something that may change the course of everything he’s been fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long on this one! I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write, but I finally have an update for you all. As always, thank you for taking the time to read and show your support! I hope you enjoy this one.

Jafar's lids are heavy with sleep as he crosses the palace gardens. The previous night had been a nightmare of sorts, rife with bittersweet memories that have begun to curl and fade at the edges. He had spent what was left of the night pacing restlessly across the grounds, waiting for any word from either Iago or Hakim as to what has become of you. He has received not even a momentary flicker of hope, though perhaps this is indeed what he deserves. You would not have left him without a reason, and if it is he who is responsible for this wretched outcome, then he must accept the full weight of the truth.

He does not wish to accept it. He _really_ doesn't.

Grey storm clouds hang above Agrabah today, a warning of what is to come. He spies one of the palace gardeners tending to the flowers which somehow still grow despite the heat, though there is a cheapness about them that causes Jafar's eyes to become slits and a bitter taste to rest upon his tongue. Endless rows of neatly positioned flowers stretch across the length of the gardens like tarnished jewels winking obnoxiously in the morning gloom. They paint the earth in muddy hues of yellows and reds and greens.

There is not a single daisy in sight.

"Why do you not grow any daises?" Jafar asks the startled gardener before he can reign the words back in. His tone is cool, bored, though there is a quiet rage building beneath that carefully-crafted exterior. "Surely it is a waste to grow flowers that are so common?" He spares a distasteful glance to the rose bushes flowering nearby.

The gardener—a man with a bent back and rosy cheeks—bows his head as he mumbles a broken apology and stumbles over his words. "If—if you would like, my vizier, we could—we could always begin planting daisies next spring. "I—I could always ask the Sul—"

Jafar unleashes a sigh so deep that it is a surprise the earth has not bowed and split open from the force of it all. "Never mind," he huffs, walking away. The gardener steps aside and bows once more.

A splash of color floats across Jafar's vision from across the grounds. At first he believes it to be a trick of the light, the sun's rays finally seeping through the mass of clouds overhead. But it is not the sun, and what he sees steals the very breath from his lungs and causes the strength in his knees to fail.

A single sunflower, wilted and crumbling, is held almost lovingly in the hands of that traitorous fool, Abbas. He is dressed in his usual blue robes and is flanked by guards, one on either side. The sharpness in his gaze speaks of dangers that even Jafar has not yet considered.

The sunflower. Where has he seen it before? There had been several at your stall whenever he had visited, but this particular one is skipping across his memories in a way that hints at the familiar.

Abbas grins, and Jafar knows at once where he has seen it before. In his room, perched in that glass vase, before and after he had shattered it. The Minister had been in his room, which he had begun to suspect when Hakim had brought him that flower crown.

Jafar’s fury erupts.

Hurtling through the palace halls at a speed that he has not seen since his days in Shirabad, Jafar begins shouting at full volume for Hakim. The paintings hung on the walls are but a blur as he flings open doors and peers into windows screaming for his captain. Somewhere in between the terrified servants and court nobles, Hakim's panic-laced voice streams through the commotion. He cannot distinguish the words which Jafar is uttering as he pulls him away to the upper floors, but the words "bastard" and "idiot" are perfectly clear.

Once they have reached the upper levels, Hakim places his hands firmly on Jafar's shoulders in an attempt to calm him. By this point, the vizier has already emptied himself of any and all curses that have built up since that miserable day when Abbas had first come to the palace.

" _Him_ ," Jafar states simply, his voice lined with steel. “He is responsible.”

"I know," Hakim says. "But it doesn't matter." Jafar's mouth opens, presumably to tell Hakim that he has taken leave of all his senses. Hakim cuts straight across, saying, "I found her."

Jafar blinks once, then twice, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as his hands cling desperately to those three little words. How can mere words have so much weight? How is it that he feels as if he is standing on the edge of a cliff, holding his breath before making the decision to leap down into the abyss, doomed if he does and doomed if he doesn't? Those words are his only shield against what may or may not come.

He stares at Hakim, unblinking, seeing yet not seeing the man standing before him. Hakim's hands tighten on his shoulders. "Alive?" Jafar chokes out. The tone of his voice suggests he wishes he had not need to ask the question at all.

Hakim smiles, a soft laugh escaping into the air. "Yes, you fool. Alive. Of _course_." He says it in such a way that suggests it has always been a certainty.

Jafar's shoulders immediately collapse beneath Hakim's palms. "Where?" For all his knowledge, for all his education, anything more than simple words are foreign to him. He is still living the moment in which those precious words had been uttered.

_I found her. I found her. I found her._

_Alive. Alive. Alive._

"In the same place as the first time," Hakim murmurs, not daring to meet his vizier's gaze. His hands drop to his sides. This causes Jafar to come crashing back to earth.

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Hakim has the audacity to look sheepish as he stares intently at the wall in front of him.

And then Jafar has a thought, a thought so ludicrous that he almost believes he has gone truly and utterly mad from the stress and lack of sleep brought on by this entire wretched scenario. He gives Hakim a look so stern and cutting that he would not be surprised if the man scurried away in fear.

But he will not, because this is Hakim, and Hakim cowers from no one and nothing. Not even a very suspicious vizier who can't seem to decide if his emotions are more inclined to homicide or understanding.

"You've known," Jafar says. He doesn't have the heart to inject even a sliver of venom into his statement. Save for throwing himself to his knees and begging for your forgiveness, he lacks the energy to even feign anger. "How long have you known?"

Hakim meets Jafar's gaze. "Since the beginning. Do not give me that look," he chides upon seeing the stillness in his vizier's expression. "Someone had to ensure you were keeping out of trouble. You must understand, you were being watched even then. I had to ensure your safety. I may be tasked with ensuring this kingdom's safety, and like it or not, but it is also my duty to see to it that _you_ are not harmed."

He's not even sure if he's angry or disappointed, because it really does not matter; the only certainly here is that this man will follow him to glory or to ruin without question, and Jafar could not be more grateful. Friends are easy to come by, but loyalty is never guaranteed. He knows now that it always will be with Hakim.

"Don't trust me to make my own decisions, do you?" Jafar remarks rather sourly.

"I trust you to make _decisions_ , though it remains to be seen whether they will be good ones."

Jafar's lips quirk into the beginnings of a smile. This can only be called a rarity. "If you have known since the beginning..." He pauses, a most unsavory thought forming in his mind. "Were you there the night of the Summer Festival Parade?"

Hakim decides that he is in no position to lie. "Yes."

Jafar blushes. "Did you see—were you—"

Rolling his eyes, Hakim replies, "Of course not. What kind of man do you think I am? No. I had guards stationed nearby, but that is the extent of it. What you do is your business."

Satisfied by this and not wanting to broach the subject for longer than is absolutely necessary, Jafar turns from Hakim and glances down the hall to the room in which he spends most of his waking hours.

_You’re in there. You are actually in there._

"You're certain it's her?"

"I have spent weeks searching for her," Hakim deadpans. "Forgive me, but I do not think I would have risked your wrath had I not been sure."

He hates admitting to fear, but fear is precisely what slicks his insides when he looks once again upon that door. Running away would be preferable to facing this—facing you—because at least then he would be making his own choice. If he so much as glimpses your face again, it will be you who will decide how this will end, and an ending is the last thing that Jafar wants.

You are his heart's desire. Have been since that blasted day in the marketplace when he had first peered into your face.

Hakim claps him on the back. "Go. Make things right again."

"Will you be here?" _Should things go to hell._

"Of course."

Jafar turns and makes for the door.

***

The rain had begun to pour relentlessly as Hakim had led you into the palace under the cover of darkness. The initial plan had been for Jafar to come to you, but in the end it was Hakim who decided that it would be less risky to smuggle you in than get Jafar out undetected. It had been exactly dawn when you had entered this very room, and most of the guards had been too busy relieving one another of their rounds to notice.

You had been hesitant in trusting Hakim at first—and with good reason—but if he was good enough to be Jafar's right hand, then he was good enough for you.

 _Jafar_. Your insides collapse in on themselves at the thought of his name. Funny how such a simple arrangement of letters have the power to render you weak and useless.

His room is precisely as you remember it, with the cavernous ceilings stretching high and the silks draped luxuriously over the windows. His turban is discarded on the floor, his serpent staff perched next to it. He is never seen without either.

The true difference here lays in the absence of a certain glass vase on the small table in the center of the room. Where before the table had been decorated with an assortment of your flowers, it now stands bare, as if proclaiming to the world that you had never existed. A pang drums in your chest, but you must remind yourself that the flowers would have long since spoiled. Besides, Jafar has not seen you in months, thereby providing him with little opportunity to acquire more.

You sit on the bed, your thoughts a tangled mess of daisies and yearning for things which you know you should not want. How you despise yourself. Telling yourself that you do not wish to see him, that you do not care for him, is perhaps the biggest lie that has ever passed through your lips. Because the truth of the matter is that you wish to see him, to hold him, to feel his skin against yours. If you cannot have those things, then you will remain satisfied with the darkness of his voice which has always soothed your deepest fears and awakened all your desires. You will be content with that if you must.

But what if Hakim had been right? What if this has been nothing more than a misunderstanding? What if he does love you, what if—

 _No_. You will not allow yourself to think it. For if you do, you will be doubly disappointed if the truth turns out to be contrary to this.

As you rise from the bed, your foot brushes against something hidden underneath. Curious, you bend and reach for it, your fingers clasping around something curved and fragile, something like paper.

It is not paper.

An ancient flower crown, blackened and withered, stares up at you. Your breath stutters at the realization that it is the very same flower crown which you had once fastened to Jafar's waist during the Summer Festival Parade, in full view of the entire kingdom.

Why would he keep this? He has no reason to, unless...

The sound of the door opening and closing cause you to jump and drop the flower crown to the floor. You hastily kick it back under the bed and pray that no one will notice it has been touched.

You turn, knowing exactly what you will see and knowing with certainty that it will not take much for you to give in.

The world ceases to exist in this moment.

Jafar looks as he always has, though there are differences, differences that can only be brought on by complete and utter desperation. His hair, for starters, sits in an angry snarl of dark curls on his head. He looks almost child-like this way; innocence and vulnerability rest over his features. His beard, too, is wild and unruly, presenting a very different image of the Jafar who usually walks the palace halls pristine and polished and with not a single hair out of place. The shadows beneath his eyes are deep; they had not been there before.

You do not know what to call the expression which lingers on his face, but you do know that you do not wish to see it again.

Recalling daisies and stolen kisses in the dead of night, you begin to cry in such a manner that suggests your pain is being pulled from the very depths of the earth, shattering through the tenuous silence through tears that cut like jagged glass. And your tears do cut, because Jafar wears a face that is smooth and pale and devoid of its usual color. But within that face—within those eyes—you spy a kind of agony that is set to spill forth in a manner completely unrestrained.

He steps forward, his hands reaching for you, but you pull back, refusing him even the luxury of holding you close after so many months.

His hands. Gods, his _hands_. You remember those hands smoothing over your face as he kissed you, deeply and with all the love he could muster.

 _Love_. Had it really been love?

For a moment neither of you speak, choosing instead to stare at one another as if you are seeing a spectre from the deepest recesses of your nightmares. Somehow, Jafar finds his voice first. "What have I done to you?" His lips barely manage to wrap around the words, but his voice is a honeyed confection, just as you remember it.

_Damn him._

"Why did you abandon me?" you lobby back, tone frosty—though you know it will warm the moment he touches you. If he touches you, it's all over, the end.

"I did not abandon you. You must know that I would never." His eyes hold sparks that could ignite and set the room ablaze at any moment.

You laugh despite the formation of fresh tears. The anger which had begun to ebb away has returned. Anger at him for lying, for his frail explanations which can hardly be called such. "You have the gall to deny the truth to my face? You surprise me, _Grand Vizier._ " He flinches at that, the hurt in his eyes clear. Good. Let it hurt. Let him feel even just a fraction of what he has done to you. "I have lived through every moment of your cruelty, and you cannot tell me that what I say is not true."

He moves toward you, but you shoot him a warning look. "You misunderstand. I wanted to see you, I tried sending letters with Iago to tell you that I—"

" _No_ ," you thunder. Memories blanket your eyes, memories which simultaneously ignite your heart and deepen your rage. "Tell me Jafar, what was it that did it for you? Was it the fact that you couldn't stand the thought of engaging further with a woman who thought to give you her touch without a single promise on your part? Or were you ashamed of what people would say if they found out? Of course, I don't blame you for not wanting to stay after that. And why would you? Men have left for less after getting even a fraction of what I gave you."

Vision swimming with a blur of shapes and colors, you feel Jafar's hands come to rest cautiously on your shoulders, but you don't have the heart to tell him not touch you. His touch burns.

Wresting yourself from his grip, you produce a crumpled sheet of paper from within your robes, and you thrust it at him with no explanation.

He reads it, his expression as smooth as the fine silks which the noblewomen wear. His face does does not change as he reads through the lines of text that you have long since committed to memory. Something flickers in his gaze when he lands on the signature at the bottom of the page. His eyes close momentarily, and when they open again, there is a conviction etched there that you know will not disappear until he does what he feels must be done, whatever that may be.

"Stay in this room." There is a deadly rage hidden within his orders, rage that is barely-contained and that only you are privy to. He plucks his turban from somewhere on the floor and places it on his head, his serpent staff in hand as he exits the room.

Naturally, you ignore his instructions to stay put and follow closely at his heels, allowing him to lead you through the halls and to a room which you are certain you should be nowhere near. You stop before the threshold, watching as everything unfolds.

Ten men in midnight blue robes are seated at a grand mahogany table. You guess that they make up Agrabah’s High Council, the same council which Jafar also serves on.

The men are visibly shaken as their vizier glides wordlessly through the room as if he is master of all. He marches directly towards a middle-aged, bearded official seated close to the head of the table. Squinting from your place at the door, you realize that it is the same man whom had stopped you in the halls that first time in which Jafar had attempted to sneak you into his rooms.

Abbas—or you think that is his name—stands just as Jafar removes his turban and sets it carefully down on the table beside his staff. A smirk crosses Abbas' face, and before the smile has time to fully form, Jafar's fist has connected with his nose, resulting in a sickening crunch and crimson spray all over the wooden surface. A collective gasp sounds from the assembled men, many of which flee from the room the moment they see Abbas' blood spill. They barely take notice of you. Several call for the guards, though the only ones who appear are Hakim, and two others whom stand at his side. The captain has made good on his promise to remain not that far behind.

“Go back to the room,” he tells you as he passes, echoing Jafar’s sentiments from earlier. You stay put. You are not going anywhere, and Hakim seems to understand.

Picking up his turban and depositing it back on his head, Jafar takes his staff and uses it to back Abbas against the wall, pinning him in place. "Let me make this exceedingly clear for you, _Minister_ ," Jafar hisses through clenched teeth. Other than the poison lacing his words, there is no other indication on his face that suggests his rage is set to bury Abbas alive—and quite literally at that. "If you dare to come near the flower merchant one more time, I promise that I will break each and every one of the bones in your body in an exceptionally slow manner. So slow, in fact, that you will beg for me to carve out your innards and put an end to your misery. Understood?"

“Making accusations already, are we?” the Minister drawls through the blood seeping into his mouth. “I warned you once, Grand Vizier. If you are not careful you will make a mockery of this kingdom. Running around with a common whore in full view of the citizens, _dirtying_ the sacred name of this empire. This will not earn you—”

"I believe that is quite enough." Jafar’s staff clatters to the ground, his fingers going to press firmly against Abbas’ throat. Hakim and his guards do not move, though they are poised to strike should their vizier go too far. Apparently Jafar attempting to choke Abbas to death is nowhere near ‘too far.’ "Do not dare to presume you can speak that way about my betrothed in my presence and live to tell the tale. Do you understand me, old fool? You will speak of her with respect so long as I roam the halls of this palace. Unless you wish to meet your end, I highly suggest you offer your sincerest apologies and make amends.”

It is that word, that one word _betrothed_ , that has your heart scurrying rapidly across the room to the man who has uttered it. You are suddenly being whisked away, floating through the air to a time and place far away and so long ago.

_A flower fit for the future wife of a vizier, wouldn’t you agree?_

You swallow against the thickness in your throat, knowing that he could not have possibly meant those words. But _betrothed_? What on earth is he thinking? What has possessed him to say something so ludicrous?

Perhaps out of instinct, you glance at your left hand, knowing perfectly well that your ring finger will be bare.

The floor shifts from beneath your feet in a dizzying movement.

It is not bare.

You are staring at a thin gold band that sparkles like summer. There are no jewels on it, for it needs none; it is an exquisite work of art all on its own.

You had not noticed the ring before this moment nor felt the cool metal being slipped onto your finger. In fact, you are certain that you had not been wearing it earlier at all, not when Hakim had gone into the city to fetch you, nor when Jafar had entered his room to greet you after months apart. When, then— _how_ —had it come to rest on your person?

Looking at Jafar now, his face twisted in a quiet fury as he has Abbas pinned in place, you have your answer. Jafar had answered plainly and honestly when you had asked him about the murmurings of him being a thief before taking on the position of vizier, and so you know without a doubt that he must have somehow slipped it on you in his room. For what purpose, you do not know, and you suppose it does not matter.

For the briefest of moments, you allow yourself to dream, to dream of a future in which you are the wife of a vizier, a future in which you are happy with Jafar. You imagine selling your flowers at your stall as you usually do, except when Jafar comes to visit, he no longer does so in secret. You are free to love and laugh and steal kisses in broad daylight, rules be damned.

The dream dissolves, and you meet Jafar’s gaze from across the room. His expression is unreadable, and this frightens you. This is the version of him which you have never known, but only seen from afar when you were nothing but a nameless, faceless woman, one of many, selling her wares in the market square.

“Hakim,” Jafar calls, his voice deadly. “I think we have seen enough tomfoolery for today. Arrest the Minister.”

Abbas simply smirks, as if daring Hakim to go anywhere near him. “Unfortunately for you, _captain_ ,” he sneers, “you don’t have that authority.”

“Oh, but I do,” Hakim retorts. “You, my friend, are under arrest for suspicion of fraud, specifically forgery of official documents, and for impersonating the Grand Vizier of Agrabah. I think we may also be able to add bribery in there somewhere.” Hakim winks at his vizier, who simply nods as he produces the false cease-and-desist notice Abbas had forged. The man looks as if he is about to be thrust face-first into hell, though that may as well be precisely what is happening.

“Effective immediately,” begins Jafar, “you will be stripped of your title and duties until further notice. I shall see to it that the Sultan makes it official. No one crosses me, Abbas, do you understand? No one.”

At these words, Abbas makes to lunge for Jafar, but Hakim makes it there first, effectively blocking the Minister and possibly avoiding a scenario in which Jafar lands another punch. It is a fact that he would not miss. 

“I will take things from here,” Hakim says. The other two guards are also in the fray, restraining Abbas with ease as the man shouts obscenities that have Jafar laughing in earnest. You can’t imagine what’s so funny, but you suppose that if the man who had just tried to destroy your happiness was finally being brought to justice, you would be laughing too. 

Jafar sweeps from the room to stand at your side. He regards you in silence. At first you think he is angry at your having disobeyed his instructions from earlier, but somehow, with everything else that has just occurred, you highly doubt it’s that. A profound sadness floods his gaze, a sadness so deep that it appears to originate from his very bones. 

He nods to himself in resignation, as if bracing himself for impact. _Betrothed_. How stupid he is. Then, in the softest tone imaginable, he says, “Come with me.”

This time, it is not an order. It is a request, and you know that this time, he will not run after you should you choose to not to go with him. The choice _is_ there, but it is as clear as day that he does not wish for you to take it. 

“I’m right behind you,” you say.

Jafar holds out his hand, and you take it. 


End file.
